


The Hall of Mirrors, Part 1

by TheAstronomyMod



Category: Kraftwerk (Band)
Genre: F/M, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-09-20 07:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 132,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9481034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAstronomyMod/pseuds/TheAstronomyMod
Summary: If you're looking for Part 2,it has temporarily gone here.A middle-aged music journalist and life-long Kraftwerk fan writes a series of essays which attract the attention of the band's reclusive founder, Ralf Hütter. A meeting leads to interviews, which lead to an invitation to ghostwrite the autobiography that Hütter has been trying to write since 1989. The writer is drawn first into the workings of the band, on tour and at the new Klingklang studios, then, slowly, as creative and emotional intimacy deepen, a more personal relationship.Since I had some concerns about the themes of this work, I have decided to split it into two. Part One is a cute, slightly fluffy tale of fandom and being a little starstruck turning into something more. It can be read as a simple romance, two imperfect older people falling in love. If you wish, you can leave the characters to live happily ever after. Or, if you have grown interested in the characters and wish to know what happens to them, you can continue on to Part Two, which will continue on and delve into darker territory.





	1. This Band Could Be Your Life

**Author's Note:**

> A note on language: there's a little tiny bit of German in the text, but nothing one would not be able to understand with a few weeks of Duolingo, or with Google Translate. >>Speech denoted as such is intended to be read as German.<< Grammatical errors are usually intended, to show a native English speaker slowly picking up proficiency. "Speech denoted as such is intended to be read as English." Heavy accents may be noted, but rendered phonetically only when relevant to the plot. It can be taken as read that Ralf speaks English with a pronounced German accent, and Kate speaks German with a pronounced English accent.
> 
> Content notes, oh boy!
> 
> 1) This story is predicated on a fictional version of the IRL music blog, One Week One Band, and essays they hosted on Kraftwerk. In order to fully understand both the background to the story, and the conversations that Ralf and the OFC engage in, it's probably helpful to read the Kraftwerk essays, most specifically Autismwelt, A Visit To Herr Hütter, Kraftwerk and Gender, Kraftwerk and Sexuality and Kraftwerk and Women. You can probably understand the story without having read the essays, as they are really only the impetus for Ralf and The Journalist to meet, and the story unfolds from there. The story is meta enough with regards to fandom and music journalism; reading OWOB only adds another layer of meta.
> 
> 2) Although the "Ralf Hütter" of this story is married and has a daughter, much like the "real" one, the "Hütter Family" as it appears in this world are completely fictional. No resemblance of any kind, to real family members is intended. No offence to the real persons behind these fictions is intended, at all. This story is a complete fiction. These people exist nowhere except inside my head. Similarly, denizens of the Klingklang studio share names with real people who have worked for Kraftwerk. These are fan fiction sketches, not intended to depict or reflect on the persons of the same name.
> 
> 3) Most of the protagonists of my other fan fictions have started out as heavily disguised versions of myself, but over the course of writing them, they turned into independent characters with their own lives and histories, with little to no connection to their creator by the end. In this story, I made no effort to change the protagonist, or disguise myself. However, the story is still fiction, even if it is "fan fiction about myself". I did participate in all of the events I described in One Week One Band - I did visit Düsseldorf, and accidentally stumbled across Hütter's home. However, none of the corresponding events _in this story_ have ever happened. The person may be real, but the story is fictional. It's wish fulfilment in some places, and dealing with horror and fears in others. If a reader has trouble distinguishing between parts that are real and parts that are fictional, please consider it all fictional.
> 
> 4) Last but not least, endless thanks to The Other K, for tireless help with German grammar, German vocabulary, and obscure bits of German culture, without which I could not write this story.

When meeting Germans, I knew it was best to be punctual. So I took a deep breath and scraped together the courage to enter the museum. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light as I walked through into the elaborately decorated and tastefully lit cafe, but I was relieved to see that the cavernous space was empty, apart from the staff. I had arrived first.

I approached a waitress, and ordered coffee in German I was pleased to find reasonably passable, before scouting a seat. I chose carefully, as I wanted to be able to see the door, but I did not want to be so close as to appear immediately visible, or worse, desperate. It was bad enough that I was the only patron in the place, but I wanted to see my lunch companion before I was seen.

My waitress brought the coffee, and left a lunch menu. I thanked her, but told her I was expecting a guest. Still, it couldn't hurt to google some of the more complicated German dishes, so I didn't look too much of a fool when it came to ordering.

The minutes ticked by. The coffee did nothing to assuage my nerves as the hour struck. A minute went by. And then another. So much for German punctuality. I took out my phone, and checked the email one more time, making sure to keep half an eye on the door. It read the same as it had the evening before.

'Glad you have arrived safely. The K21 Gallery is just down the road from your accommodation. I shall meet you in the coffee shop at noon.'

And just at that moment, a soft male voice just by my elbow said "Hallo", quiet but quite distinct, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I turned to stare at the new arrival, and realised that he must have come through the smaller door behind me, which led back into the gallery itself. Because there _he_ stood, smiling down at me with a pleasant but expectant expression on his face, bending forwards slightly, his hands neatly tucked into the back pockets of his skinny black jeans. He was tiny. That was the first thing that struck me. His hips were very narrow, and his legs were very slim, though he had a small barrel of a belly that gave him the slightly jolly air of a middle-aged dad. Although I knew in my head that he was not middle-aged, that he was actually 70, his appearance belied his age, his slightly receded hair dyed a dark blond, his clothes stylish, black, and very, very neat, a button-down shirt under a slim-fit zippered black leather jacket.

His smile faltered slightly as I realised that I had taken far too long to return his greeting. "Entschuldigen Sie, bitte. Ich suche nach jemanden namens Kate?"

"Ja, ich bin Kate," I forced myself to reply, as my brain struggled to remember my German, sputtering out a greeting of "Guten Tag, wie geht's es Ihnen?"

The pleasant smile reasserted itself as he realised he did indeed have the right person. "Ja, es geht mir gut. Ich heisse Ralf."

"Yes, I know." As if he could possibly have been anyone else. I tried to laugh, but it came out a high-pitched giggle, almost a shriek. If I was trying to stay cool, I was failing miserably. "I mean... Ich weiss schon. Es ist selbverständlich, wirklich."

"We can speak English if you prefer," he offered, and I swear to god his eyes actually twinkled. They were very blue, almost startlingly blue in that weathered, middle-aged face. No, I reminded myself. Not middle-aged. I am middle-aged. He is old enough to be my father.

"Don't you dare," I laughed. "My German will never improve if I don't practice it. Ich spreche nicht, ich lerne kein Deutsch."

"Very good," he beamed, and flashed a tight-lipped smile. "I see you have ordered a coffee already," he continued, completely ignoring my request for German. "I will order one myself, at the bar, yes?"

I nodded, and he turned and walked away. As I stared at his retreating back, his slight shoulders draped in a leather jacket that was a bit too heavy for the unseasonably warm autumn, I wondered how on earth I had ended up here.

When I had received the first email, I had very nearly written it off as some kind of sick joke. 

In ten years of my hobby of writing music reviews, blogs, and even the occasional published piece in magazines, I had grown used to the odd response, usually from a publicist, but sometimes, very rarely, from an artist who was pleased with, or more likely, had taken exception to a piece I had written about them. It went with the territory. But when I had taken on the legendary German techno group, Kraftwerk, for _This Band Could Be Your Life_ , the idea that they might contact me was the furthest thing from my mind. Kraftwerk were notorious for being insular, self contained, even reclusive, seldom doing any press, and granting interviews even more rarely.

But _This Band Could Be Your Life_ was not an ordinary music publication, and I had not written any ordinary piece. The concept was simple: the blog was handed over to a music writer for a week, wherein they could write as much or as little, on any topic, personal or arcane, related to a single band. Instead of opting for the usual highly technical trainspottery about Kraftwerk, I had opted for something quite personal, emotional and densely layered. Yes, some of it was quite controversial, talking about Kraftwerk in relation to gender, sexuality and the Asperger's with which I'd been finally diagnosed, perhaps a year earlier.

I had expected resistance, especially from rabid fans who did not quite see the band and their music the same way i did. But I had not expected a terse email from someone claiming to be Kraftwerk's lawyers. And so, suspicious of some kind of scam, I had left it unanswered for a day or two, while I debated how to respond. It was very brief and to the point, in that highly exact and precise English I had come to find typical of Germans.

"Dear Sir or Madam. I have been passed this email address by Hans of the online publication, This Band Could Be Your Life. I am trying to reach the author of their piece on the artist Kraftwerk, on behalf of my client, Herr Hütter. Please let me know if you are this party, or, if you are not, if you can put me in contact with this party. Kind regards..." followed by the tangle of umlauted vowels and impossible consonants of a heavy-duty double-barrelled German name.

The first thing I did, was google the name of the firm in the email address. It was a mid-size private law firm with offices in Düsseldorf, Hamburg and Brussels. And the double-barrelled lady was indeed listed as a partner, though there was no client list. If this was a scam, someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make it look highly authentic.

I told no one. To be honest, I panicked a little, wondering what on earth this lawyer wanted - to sue me, no doubt. I read the email over and over again, then decided to eat humble pie, and try to go into damage control mode.

"Dear Frau Double-Barrel," I wrote. "I am the author of the piece. I intended no harm by it, as honestly, I am a fan, and have been for decades. If your client objects I will, with a heavy heart, do my best to edit it to their satisfaction, if you let me know which sections they find objectionable. Kind regards, K." I hit send, and was immediately assailed by a wave of vomitty panic, wishing I had re-read it another thousand times before sending, or figured out some way to retrieve it from the email server. But no, it was gone, and my fate was in the hands of some cantankerous lawyer from Düsseldorf.

For the first day, I was on tenterhooks every time I checked my email, waiting for the no doubt terrifying response. By the second day, I had decided that it was definitely a scam, and I would be hearing no more from them, since I had called their bluff. On the third day, halfway through the afternoon, when I was least expecting it, a response dropped into my inbox, this time with a large attachment. Oh god, was it legal to send a writ or a summons or whatever the German equivalent was, via email?

But the response shocked me. "Dear K," it began, and I could feel the German frustration at not having any more of my name to go on. "On the contrary, my client was very pleased with the piece, and enjoyed it greatly. He wished me to pass on the attached message."

As I hit download, I felt both panic and excitement rising in the back of my throat. It was a jpeg, rather than the expected text document or PDF, so I had no idea whatsoever what it might contain. The ticking icon stopped its circuit, and the image slowly loaded. As I enlarged it, I instantly recognised the object that filled the top half of the screen - it was the pen and ink sketch I had nervously dropped into his postbox in Krefeld. At first, I squinted at it, feeling my distrust rise. After all, I had posted a photo of the drawing to the internet. Anyone could have downloaded it and printed it out. But then I zoomed in, and saw a tiny spatter in one corner, where it looked as if it had been splashed by a raindrop, and the ink had run a bit. This was not a printout; I was looking at the original. Only one person had access to the original.

Below the drawing, which had actually been framed in clear plexiglass, was a short handwritten note. "Frau K, thank you for the drawing. I treasure your little offering-to-the-Rhein even more, now I know the background. If you are ever in Krefeld again, please consider yourself invited to come in for a cup of coffee instead of hanging about my driveway." And then it was signed below, a squiggle that I recognised from many autographed ticket stubs and albums I'd seen posted on the internet: Ralf Hütter.

I saved the image to my phone, and then opened it, and stared at it over and over. It had to be some kind of trick. I cringed at the thought that he had actually read my piece, but then cringed even harder at the realisation that yes, he had seen me through the hedge as I paced up and down outside his house. It was a mad thing to do to write this letter! But it had been a madder thing to do, to visit a stranger's house in a foreign country and drop a drawing as a fan letter through his letterbox. But clearly, he had been pleased with the drawing - and his lawyer had told me that he had enjoyed the blog.

I thought for a very long time before replying, not wanting to either come off too flippant, or to be too earnest and scare him away. "Dear Double-Barrel, please reassure your client that I have no intention of repeating my little jaunt to Krefeld ever again. But if he is serious about meeting for coffee, I may be visiting Düsseldorf again later this autumn."

The reply, which came the next day this time, intrigued me, even as it scared me to death. "Dear K. May I have your permission to pass your contact details on to my client? He would like to speak with you himself."

I fired back a reply before I could even fully process the request. "Yes, of course."

I nearly had a heart attack, the first time I saw that famous name in my inbox. Ralf Hütter. rh@klingklang.de - yes, I checked the actual email address. It took me an hour to work up the courage to even open the email, and nearly six hours to compose a reply.

"Frau K. My advocate informs me that you are planning to visit Düsseldorf soon. I shall be away, performing in Bilbao for the second week of October, but other than that, I would be honoured to meet for a chat. Ralf"

And so, slowly, over the course of the next two weeks, and about half a dozen email exchanges, I found myself booking a trip to Düsseldorf to have lunch with Ralf Hütter. His emails were short, sparse, and peppered with in-jokes and references to his band's own songs. At first, I treated this like some kind of test of fandom, and tossed the references right back. The first time I did it, I worried myself sick over whether this was an appropriate response, or if I had overstepped the boundaries, especially as he could go days without replying.

But my correspondent seemed tickled by my quotes and in-jokes, and was always more quick to respond when I included one. If it were a test, I supposed I must have passed, because tentative invitations turned to definite plans. I must present myself in Düsseldorf, as soon as the Bilbao dates were over. And so I put the money down for train tickets and an AirBNB in the Altstadt. Still, I could not quite tell, and did not have the courage to come right out and flat-out ask, if this was to be a formal interview, or an informal social call. I had bought a little portable digital recorder in preparation, but it was burning a hole in my bag until I worked up the courage to ask.

To be honest, I did not think I would ever get over the shock of seeing the man's name appear in my inbox. But nothing quite prepared me for the sight of Ralf, padding back across the K21 coffeeshop with a genial smile on his face, as he headed for my table, then sat down opposite me. He disentangled a large black canvas messenger bag from around his neck, and stowed it at his feet, then beamed at me, as self-satisfied as a cat. I stared at him, barely able to believe that this small, neat man was really the artist that all this fuss had been about. His long, rectangular face was actually quite startlingly handsome in person, his very pointed chin and nose still very sharp, giving him an inquisitive look, though his square jaw had given way to slight jowls. He stared back at me, observing me carefully.

"Did you have a pleasant journey?" he enquired solicitously. It was a perfectly normal question, but the whole situation just felt surreal.

"Oh, ja, sehr nett. Ich mag der Zug..." I was just trying to show off really, but I couldn't help the feeling, as his lips creased into a smile, that he was laughing at my appalling accent and still-clumsy grammar. "I don't suppose I could call myself a proper Kraftwerk fan if I didn't like trains. But at least I discovered from my previous experience, that one should book it through the Deutschebahn website, and pay extra for a reservation.... I suppose you're completely used to it by now, but it never loses the sense of awe and wonder, for me. To be able to step on a train in London and step off in Europe. It's magic."

His eyes almost completely crinkled up as he let out a short, breathy gasp I knew to be a laugh. "Oh no, it never loses the magic for me, either." And we actually managed to make small talk about the Channel Tunnel for several minutes; nice, safe, neutral territory, as both of us started to relax.

The waitress came to take our order, and he glanced over at me with a slightly paternal expression. "Do you need help, or..." I noted how he, himself, was holding his menu at arms' length, as if he needed bifocals to read.

I gazed back at him slightly bemused over the top of my glasses. "Ich kann nicht reden so gut... aber ich kann liesen," I told him gently, wondering if that were too cheeky a reference to make, then ordered the vegetarian entree.

The waitress took his order, and then left us in peace again. We were, still, the only patrons, and it felt very private. He leaned forward, fixing me with that steady blue gaze, until I felt rather like an insect caught on a pin. "So, Kate," he ventured. I had finally given him my full name, after I'd booked the train tickets, and I had to admit, it gave me a slight shivery feeling to hear him say my name in his clipped accent. "Tell me about Brexit. We have always thought of the English as so sensible, so sober. Why is it that you want to leave us?"

"Oh god," I groaned, rolling my eyes. I had already had this conversation with my AirBNB host the evening before. "Don't blame me for this; I voted to stay."

"Yes, but fifty-two percent of your compatriots do not agree with you. This was a great surprise to me - to all of us Germans. I like England; I have always felt very comfortable in your country. And now this?"

I shook my head slowly, wondering if I really wanted to get drawn into this conversation, now, with him. Honestly, at home, I could rant about Brexit for England, but I wanted very much to stay calm and rational in this completely irrational situation. "I think," I said slowly, trying not to be drawn. "It was mostly a protest vote, by people who had got so used to their votes meaning nothing, that they were surprised by the result. Take Britain's natural insularity and xenophobia, and ramp it up, thanks to six years of Austerity... I think a great deal of people were simply voting 'not this' without thinking what they were actually voting _for_. They voted for change at any cost, but not all changes are good, after all.... Not to mention the sheer amount of lies and deliberate disinformation going around. People are well aware that things have gone very wrong; but it's very easy for people in power to shift the blame onto Brussels as a way of deflecting blame from Westminster."

The waitress came and brought our food, interrupting my rant before it could really take off. As we tried to arrange various condiments and a basket of bread around our plates, I hoped that we could drop the subject, but he came doggedly back to it. Obviously, he asked intelligent questions, about the rise of the Far Right, and about the role of the tabloid press, showing that he had more than a passing familiarity with the topic. I did my best to answer, searching in my brain for what I remembered about UKIP from the book _Bloody Nasty People_ , but I squirmed. After all, I did not come all the way to Düsseldorf to talk about Brexit.

But Ralf was very determined when he got his mind on an issue, and pursued the topic like a terrier. He had many thoughts on Europe, and how the European Community could be made better, fairer, but it was clear that the topic of the British was one he felt almost personally let down by. I let him talk, too shy to change the subject, as honestly, who was I to shush Ralf Hütter on the topic of Europe? Sometimes it really was best to let important men talk themselves out. At least it gave me a chance to concentrate on eating my food without too many gaffes in table manners, nodding and agreeing when he looked at me meaningfully, rather than risk talking with my mouth full, or anything terrible like that.

But finally he seemed to realise that I was no longer participating, and tucked his chin down to look at me as if peering over bifocals. "And what about you? How does this affect you, personally?"

I chewed thoughtfully, finishing my mouthful before replying. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid. I think things are going to get a lot worse, though it may take a while for the effects to trickle through to people of my class."

"Ah, the British and class; how could I have forgotten," said Ralf with a smirk. "We are not so hung up on class here."

I bit my tongue, sitting opposite this millionaire son of a doctor, but this time I was tactful enough to change the subject. "I'll be honest; I've been checking the technology section of the Rheinisch Post to see if there are any programming jobs available, so I could get out before the wall went up in the Channel Tunnel, so to speak." As soon as I said it, I realised what an inappropriate metaphor it was to use with a German, and I winced, but he looked at me thoughtfully.

"Would you consider moving to Germany?"

"Well... if I could get a job, I might well consider it. But I expect there's likely to be hiring freeze with regards to British workers. It's a terrible risk, considering we could become illegal at any time in the next two years."

Ralf smiled. "But no... I think you are in luck. I read in the Technology News the other day, that firms in Berlin are specifically looking to recruit British programmers."

I shook my head and smiled wistfully. "Unfortunately, I'm too old for that. They mean young people, for start-ups. The wrong technology for a start - I can't keep up with the cutting edge of programming any more. And also, you know, I'm old. I have a mortgage, I need security. I can't take the insecurity of working for start-ups any more. It's OK to live like that when you're in your 20s and even 30s, but not when you're 45."

Ralf raised his eyebrows in disagreement, but then sighed wistfully. "45? You are still young."

"Not to a tech headhunter."

"Headhunter?" asked Ralf, and for a moment, he looked alarmed, before I translated.

"Recruiter. I remember, when I was very young, my father was a programmer - well, a systems analyst - back when such skills were very rare. He was always getting these mysterious phone calls from agents trying to poach him, and he would put the phone down and say 'headhunter' with such a despairing air that I actually thought he meant literally."

His expression brightened, as if he had just realised something. "So your father was a programmer? Is this how you got your start in programming so young?"

"I wasn't that young. I was 19."

"A child," whistled Ralf. "I don't think I knew what a computer was, when I was 19. But, I have to admit, I found it very funny how you described it; that you did not like our music when you first heard it, because it reminded you of your ' _shitty job_ '."

I laughed aloud, as it was so strange to hear Ralf Hütter swearing, but he punctuated his swear with raised eyebrows, as if daring me to laugh. "Well, yes. It's not my fault you were too visionary, that you invented my job before I had it."

"So tell me about this InfoSec," said Ralf, finally tucking into his lunch in earnest. "It sounds interesting." 

This time, I was happy to yammer on, and let him finish his meal while I rambled on at length. "Well, now that everyone carries around with them little tiny pocket computers everywhere they go, in the form of Smartphones, it's just too tempting for hackers to try to scam them."

"Not me," sighed Ralf. "I have an old-fashioned Handy, but it is a stupid-phone. My wife and my daughter, they are always on the smartphones, updating the Facebook. But I just never took to them."  He very fastidiously folded a vegetable leaf onto his fork, raised it to his mouth, and nibbled on it delicately. Looking down at his plate, I saw that he had very carefully separated the piles of food on his place, leaf vegetables not touching the potatoes not touching the small curl of goats' cheese rubbed in herbs. "I don't like it, the Facebook, this updating of how is it called... Twitter. Always updating, updating, as if everyone is constantly informing on themselves. The Stasi no longer need to spy on us; we spy on ourselves for them. So what use have I for a smartphone? I shall keep the stupid-phone."

"That's really not fitting in with your public image, Herr Hütter," I said, with what I hoped was a gentle smile.

He shook his head slowly. "I was not really Mr Gadget. That was Florian, who always had to have the latest gadget, the latest Handy, the smartest of the smartphones. For him, it was about games - you know he is obsessed with computer games - he always had to have the latest device for playing these endless fiddly videogames."

As I settled into my topic, I couldn't help a bit. What I did for a living was, I had to admit, fascinating to anyone technically minded, and Ralf listened with interest, as the subject clearly intrigued him, too. I explained about various scams and malware so devious that I had to admire the ingenuity behind them, even while recognising that they were completely evil. And my audience seemed pleased with the information, because I think really he wanted confirmation that he was right to be so suspicious of the things. He finished his dinner, and pushed his plate away, and continued to ask questions about bot-nets and DNS attacks, though I told him that really, with regards to the security risks we investigated, it was the psychological aspects of it that were most fascinating. That it was much easier to trick the human into doing something terribly insecure, than it was to actually hack the machine.

The waitress came back, and took our plates, before offering us the desert menu, and I fell suddenly silent, feeling very self-conscious. How could lunch have gone by so quickly? How many years of fandom building up to this, and I had wasted my one chance to interrogate my idol by wittering on about Brexit and my shitty dayjob.

Ralf ordered more coffee, but he seemed in no hurry to leave, asking the waitress to leave the desert menu and bring a bottle of sparkling water, as perhaps he would contemplate an ice cream once he had finished his coffee. But as I looked across the table at him, my mind seemed to be racing so fast with all of the questions I had been building up to ask him, that my mouth seemed to completely lose the possibility of speech.

Which was a shame, as we had been talking so easily, previously. How unlike his public image of reticence, he seemed to be in person. After the initial awkwardness, we had come to talk quite easily, with animation and amusement. He had a sharp intelligence, and a wry wit, which I liked, and responded to eagerly. But then again, there were so many conflicting reports of his character. Some people found him shy and standoffish, while others reported that he was quite glib, and charming, though evasively so, like a smooth politician who simply elided questions he did not wish to answer, with pre-prepared statements. But nothing about our conversation had seemed pre-prepared. In fact, it had flowed quite naturally, and if it were a date, I would have called it a successful one. But it was not a date, I had to remind myself. It was my only chance to interview the elusive brain of the Kraftwerk organisation.

But Ralf must have noticed my sudden quiet. Once the meal was cleared away, and the waitress brought our drinks - his third coffee, my second - Ralf leaned back, sipped at his coffee, and then smiled rather stiffly, as if to announce that the audience was now to begin. "So. You must have questions."

I rolled my coffee gently around the rim of the wide cup to try to knock off some of the foam. "Yes, I have many questions. But do you want me to ask as a journalist, or as a fan?"

"I got the distinct impression from your writing that they were one and the same, for you."

"Yes and no. Different modes of the same beast. So, is this an interview, then?"

And there it was, the famous Hütter reserve, coming up like a wall behind his eyes as he crossed his legs very tightly under the table. He sipped his coffee, then placed it gently back on the saucer, pushing the small teaspoon back and forth around the cup. "Well," he said cagily, not taking his eyes from mine, as if he were suddenly afraid I was a dangerous creature that might strike if he stopped watching me for even a moment. "Let's keep it informal for now, shall we? Call it a chat."

"Just as well. I suppose the questions I most want to ask you are probably a bit too... personal for a formal interview, anyway," I confessed, breaking his gaze to look down at my own saucer. He really did hold eye contact just a little bit too intensely for a little bit too long. A classic Asperger's trait, whispered a tiny voice in the back of my head.

And just as suddenly, the wall vanished, as he leaned forward with an impish grin, and asked, "You mean, you wish to know if Florian and I ever really did have sexual relations?"


	2. The Musician Interviews The Journalist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Journalist arrived in Düsseldorf expecting to perhaps interview Ralf Hütter, but as lunch unfolds, she finds that it is Herr Hütter who wishes to interview her.

"No!" I shrieked, then started to laugh aloud, as much out of nerves than humour, holding my hand over my mouth as if that would stop the giggles. It was just such a surprise. Asking whether I wanted to know if he and his former musical partner had had _sex_ was the last thing I would ever have expected to come out of his mouth, though he was grinning at my reaction, as if pleased to have caught me off guard. "Herr Hütter! Oh my god, no, I would never ask... I can't... oh my god."

"Please. It is _Ralf_." His sweet, almost grandfatherly smile looked quite at odds with this unexpected diversion, but I couldn't help the sense that he was rather impishly enjoying my flustered discomfort. Learning forward, I thought for a moment that he was going to reach out to touch me, but no. He just opened the bottle of sparkling water, and poured each of us a glass. "I am teasing you a little, yes, but, well, you did raise this topic, in your pieces. I found it interesting to read what you had to say about sex, and gender, and how do you say... _queerness_. You were right in your assessment. We did play with this imagery, quite consciously. We had many gay friends, in those days, so it's not as if we were not aware of what we were doing. But I'm sorry to disappoint you. My affinity for Florian was chaste. It was all play. It was not that kind of a marriage."

"I'm so... I feel awkward now. I hope you weren't offended," I stuttered. To be honest, I was shocked to hear him speaking so candidly. After all the idle intellectual chat of politics and technology, now we were really getting straight in at the deep end, with no more foreplay. Or perhaps this was the real test, to see how I reacted.

"On the contrary. I was very interested in your thoughts on the sexuality within our music. I liked how you picked up on the idea that you were discussing the characters in a film, rather than the actors playing them. This way, I felt you were able to address the themes of the work, whether romantic or erotic or homoerotic or machine-erotic, without reducing such matters to the level of gossip-magazine personal-life triviality. I will never understand why it is that _music_ journalists care so much about the personal lives of the music's creators, rather than engaging with the music. This seems to me a distraction." He shrugged lightly, as I wrestled with myself, my desire to defend my writing trying to overcome my embarrassment.

I knew I should probably have kept my mouth shut, as I was probably jeopardising my chances for a real interview, but I couldn't seem to help myself. "Well, yes and no. I get that it's invasive and prurient to dig into a musician's _sexual_ life, but I do think that personal life is important, because music is personal. Firstly, because, well, personality is important to music. You said it yourself, in that interview I quoted, after you had left the band to finish your architecture degree. You were looking for musicians who could express their _personality_ through their music. I'm really, really interested in bands... well, as _systems_. Combinations of people, and combinations of the personal and creative functions of people, balancing and editing and compromising and combining, this kind of thing is why solo albums are almost never as good as the efforts of the groups that spawn them. Sometimes it is the combination of people, rather than the individuals in and of themselves. Like sodium and chlorine, both of them by themselves are poisons, yet together, as salt, they are the building block of life. It's not just understanding the personalities, but understanding how they interact that is the clue to unlocking how bands work."

Ralf's eyes looked very bright as he seemed to study me. "Alright, yes. Well, this I can understand. This approach makes sense. But why you journalists always want to know if musicians are married, if we have girlfriends, about our family lives. This is private. It is not to do with the music, at all."

"Ralf, I thought you said you read my pieces. Because, of all of the aspects I focused on - Kraftwerk and technology, Kraftwerk and architecture, Kraftwerk and the German language - you know the piece that was most popular was Kraftwerk and women."

He nodded quickly. "Yes, this was the first one that that came to my attention."

"Because this wasn't about your sex lives, or about private matters, it was about positioning you within a community that also included women. I know you are an all-male band, but you did not live in an all-male universe. The women around you had influences on you, and I think it's horrible the way they get erased from the story."

Ralf continued to nod, chewing on his lip as if he was thinking. "This is very true. I had not thought about Barbara in maybe 40 years, but you were right about the photos that she took of us. Those were, for a long time, my favourite photos of Florian and I, showing how we worked, what it was like to be in Klingklang together. And it was Barbara's idea to photograph us in the studio, the artists at work. And yes, it is true, how deeply involved Claudia and Tina were in the music scene, this was also very perceptive. In fact..." And here he chuckled slightly, in that breathy laugh of his. "It was Claudia - Claudia Schneider-Esleben, Florian's sister, of course - she first saw this article on the Facebook and passed it on to my wife. I do not have the Facebook, but my wife is very fond of it; uses it to keep in touch with old friends, and distant family members. Claudia is quite active on it. She saw your writing posted there, saw that she was discussed in it - this pleased her greatly - and passed it along to my wife. Who passed it to me." Ralf delivered this information with a decided nod, as I felt my stomach starting to churn. Had _all_ of them read it?

"Your wife liked it?" I asked a bit too brightly, trying to restore my composure. "Well, that was gracious of her."

He chuckled, two more of those short, breathy bursts. "She is not the jealous kind." And then a smile I might have been tempted to think of as flirtatious had it not been for what followed. "Besides, she did not think you were my type," he added, with a raised eyebrow.

I stared at him, feeling my face turning pale, about to demand how on earth his wife had known what type I even was, when I realised. The internet. Of course. The links to my Twitter, to my Tumblr. I had posted selfies enough on social media. I closed my mouth and said nothing, fishing about on my plate for a crust chewy enough to spare me the onus of talking for a while.

We ate in silence for a minute, before he wet his throat with a sip of water, then started, softly, to speak again. "You see, you have hit on one of her pet theories about me. When we met... oh, nearly twenty years ago, now... She was working as a nurse, you see, so she kept up to date on these matters. She tried to get me to read these theories, about this condition, Asperger's, that you speak of."

I swallowed nervously, astonished that he had brought it up, just like that, when I had been dancing my way around it trying to think of a way to ask. "You mean, you think... or she thinks...?"

He looked across the table, his deep blue eyes clear, guileless, and for a moment, he actually looked a little lost, before he consciously rearranged his face into a smile. "Well. She says this is a framework, a way of thinking that helps her to understand me, the way that I am, and why I need things to be the way that I need them to be." He thumped the table, ever so softly, with the palm of his hand as he spoke. "I am not the easiest person to live with, you see. But she says, this way of looking at me, it helps her to understand, verstehen Sie?"

I looked at him carefully, and realised that he had come to the end of his speech. Both of us just stared at one another, as if equally surprised by this abrupt confession. "Why are you telling _me_ this?" I almost whispered.

He shrugged, and his face suddenly looked very tired, the boyish smile gone for a moment, as he momentarily looked all seventy of his years. "Because I thought that you might understand." For a moment, he looked down, examining the Formica of the table as if lost in thought, but then something seemed to strike him, and he perked up slightly, looking up at me through his long eyelashes. "You see, you caught something. I read them, those pieces. I don't usually read the press, because it is so foolish. People say, oh we just write about technology. But we don't write about technology; we write about the interface, the _communication_ between man and machine. This difference is very important to me."

Briefly, he took a sip of coffee, so quickly that it didn't seem to interrupt the flow of words. Once Ralf got going, it was almost impossible to think of him as shy or reticent.

"Or people say we just write about transport - you know the old joke Maxime used to say to me: oh, you have written albums about cars and trains and bicycles now, when are you doing an album about aeroplanes? But you intuitively grasped it. I write constantly about travel, about movement, yes... but what is all this movement for? It's about communication. All this rushing about, it is about trying to make contact. It is about connection. The same with the technology. You wrote something that struck me, so that it has stayed with me for weeks. What you wrote, about using technology as a way to make contact with other human beings _bearable_. Is that not the subject of our life's work?"

I swallowed the last of my coffee, feeling my head spinning. It was such an odd sensation, having taken a shot in the dark, projecting so much of myself onto another human being, and finding out that I was right. My voice seemed to have dried up, and I could think of nothing to say. I cleared my throat, and just about managed to whisper "Thank you."

"Why are you thanking me?" he asked with a slightly perplexed expression.

"Thank you for being so honest with me. But really... thank you for writing the music. I can't even... adequately express what it means to me... the way your music has given form and expression to my emotions... just how beautiful, this glimpse of perfection... how can I even begin to..." My voice trailed off into a mumble, as I found myself rather thrown by the entire turn the conversation had taken.

"I think you already have quite well." The perplexed expression changed to a smile as he gestured with one hand. "It is the musician who should thank their audience for listening, not the other way around," he said, then made a tutting sound with his tongue, and waved my compliments away, as if they embarrassed him. Then he fixed me with those very bright, very alert eyes. "I know I said I would answer any question that you put to me, and I shall. But please. Since you have turned the tables by thanking the musician, may I turn the tables for a moment, and ask the journalist a question?"

I swallowed nervously. "Erm... I suppose."

He stared at me so intently, he didn't even blink. "What does it _feel_ like, this Asperger's of yours?"

It was a question I had been asked many times in the previous year, by family, friends, colleagues. I should have been used to answering it, but I was still flustered by the fact that it was _him_ asking. I shrugged vaguely, playing for time. "If your wife is a nurse, hasn't she shown you the literature, the proper psychological assessments of it..."

Ralf shook his head slowly. "My wife's literature is all written by doctors telling people what to look out for, in diagnosis. It tells me nothing about what it feels like to have it. I want you to tell me in your own words. You have a real... _gift_ for description. Your writing showed a particular kind of insight. I want you to tell me, from the inside, how it feels."

"I..." I looked down at my empty coffee cup, blushing at his compliment, but feeling suddenly very put on the spot. Writing was one thing, when I had all the time in the world to consider and edit and rephrase. But to try to put it into actual speech, at speed? "OK," I sighed. "Since you _flatter_ me..." I glanced up at him to show that I had seen through this ruse, and he smiled mischievously. His smile was still a little boy's smile. I took a deep breath. "It feels like... You know in films, in costume dramas and the like, depicting what the English would call 'the olden days'?"

"Yes." He nodded quickly. "My wife is very fond of these costume dramas. I know the type."

"In these films, there is often a ball scene. Where people line up in great long lines with their partners, and they do these incredibly elaborate old-fashioned dances?"

"Oh yes," said Ralf, speaking very fast. "A formal ball. With all of the intricate steps and routines. There is a very famous German film called Three Nuts... Three Hazelnuts For Cinderella. They show it on the television every Christmas and my family always make sure we watch, especially the dancing scenes. My wife like the dancing, but my daughter, I think, loves the dresses, the elaborate clothes, even more than the dancing."

"Yes, well, you know what the scene is like. There is music, and everyone dances round and performs all of these intricate steps, you know, step forward, take your partner's hands, step back, everybody turn and bow to your neighbour, then turn to your other neighbour, take them by the waist and swing them around, and so on, everyone in rhythm..."

"My wife always says that it is a shame that no one dances like this any more, but me... well, I prefer my kind of dancing, as I prefer my kind of music. Less complicated steps to remember."

"Yes, you see," I said. "The music. The music is the important thing for these dances, just as much as knowing what the steps are."

"Yes," agreed Ralf. "One must have music to dance."

"Well. My whole life, in any sort of social situation, I feel like I am at one of these elaborate dances, but I can't hear the music. That's... what it feels like, to be autistic. I can manage... you know, if I watch people very closely, I'm a pretty good mimic. I can learn the steps, and try to memorise the order in which they go, and try to turn or clap or curtsy just when I see other people doing so, so I can approximate the illusion that I am competent at dancing. But I can never, ever hear the music."

Ralf looked at me quite oddly, his head tilting to one side. "But that's normal, isn't it? That's just what everyone does. Everyone has to learn the steps of any social situation."

"Yes," I said, a little defensively. "Everyone has to learn the steps. But they can actually hear the music, so that they do the movements at the right time, and in the right way, in the right order. And it gets so easy for most people, that they can eventually do it without even thinking about it. Just by listening to the music, the complicated dance feels natural. But for me, no matter how well I learn the steps, I just can not hear the music. I can perform the steps, but I always get them slightly the wrong speed, or at the wrong time, or in the wrong order, and if I skip one, I can't just listen to the music and catch up, I have to go back to the beginning and go through them all over again. No matter how many times I do the dance, I always have to think through and count the steps. It never becomes natural and second nature for me, this social dancing, this give and take, the way it does for other people, because I cannot hear the music."

Ralf glared at me with a quite concentrated expression on his face, as if he were having trouble with this. "But there is no music. Everyone is just going through the steps like a routine. They say hello, and they ask you how you are, and you have to just remember, that you are not expected to respond because this is not a real question, this is just a social convention. These are the steps. One follows them by rote. We all do. There is no music."

I shook my head slowly, sadly, feeling I had explained myself badly. "The music is a metaphor, yes, but in terms of social interactions, for most people, they _can_ hear that there is a rhythm and more importantly, a tone to every situation, that they are supposed to go along with. They can and do perceive the expected flow of human interactions, they intuit the emotions and motives of the people around them, the social currents, read the situation, understand intuitively how the give and take works, how the dance should go. They walk into a room, understand that the gathering is formal, so they should speak and behave in a formal manner; or they walk into a party, understand that it is more relaxed, and behave less stiffly. This is the music that I mean. Hearing the tone, the rhythm of social interaction. Most people _can_ do that."

Ralf's expression started to change as if the meaning of what I was saying was slowly dawning on him. "They can." It was neither a question nor a statement but somehow both.

"Think about people you know, who are really charming, really gracious, who always know the right thing to do, in any situation, even a new one."

"My wife," he said quickly, with a slow, affectionate smile. "She is one of those people; she always knows what to do, what to say to put people at ease. I have no idea how she does it. She keeps trying to tell me it's just confidence - this is what my mother used to say, too - that it was a matter of confidence. I used to get flustered very easily, but the trick, she said, is not to show it. That is how to overcome shyness."

I shook my head slowly. "Ralf, I am not shy, nor am I suffering from a lack of confidence. I have no problem getting on a train and travelling halfway across the continent by myself, just to have coffee with a man I admire. In fact, it's easier in other countries, because if you're 'foreign' then people allow you to get things a little wrong. But I feel and act like a foreigner, even when I am at home. Because I never hear the music."

Ralf's expression grew more troubled. "But I don't hear this 'social' music. I never have." A light went on in his eyes as he looked up at me, and the penny seemed to drop.

For several minutes, neither of us spoke, as both of us simply just looked at each other. At first, it felt a little strange, staring at him so openly, but as he did not look away, it started to feel like a game of chicken, to see who would avert their gaze first. But slowly I realised, no, there was no game, we were just looking at each other, like each of us was trying to figure the other one out. Neither of us could work out, when was the right time to look away, so both of us just carried on staring. Finally, I smiled and shrugged. Ralf smiled back, looking almost relieved, and reached for the desert menu. 

After perusing it for a moment, he looked back up at me with a bright smile. "Do you know, I do want a sweet for afters. But not here. Tell me, Kate, how are you for time this afternoon? Are you very busy, or are you free to have some cake with me?"

I laughed with relief and shrugged. "I had no plans beyond seeing the gallery. I am at your disposal if you have a better idea."

"I want to take you to Cafe Bittner. They have the best cakes in Düsseldorf. It is not far, but we can take my car, if you prefer."

Trying not to blush, I nodded an assent to his plans, feeling very very flattered that my audience had been extended. "I have been to Cafe Bittner, on my first visit. I wouldn't be a Kraftwerk fan, if I hadn't. But yes, I'd love to go."

"Good! It is decided." Leaning backwards, he attracted the waitress's attention, and produced his credit card. I tried to put some money in towards the bill, but he wouldn't hear of me paying.

I said I needed to use the loo, and he replied that he would wait for me at the table. But as I stood up, I saw it. That momentary expression crossing his face that could only be described as disappointment. I mean, I knew it, I lived in this body every day of my life, I knew it did not pass muster as an attractive body. Sitting down, with my bulk covered by the table, well, my face looked alright enough to pass for pretty. But as I stood, and passed by him, I saw that expression, disappointment, followed by a whiff of disapproval, wherein I knew my body had been judged and found _fat_.

In the safety of the loo, I relieved myself, then checked my face in the mirror. My short, gingery hair miraculously looked OK, in fact the Rheinisch climate suited it, and actually gave it a slightly curly lift which looked quite cute. I had even depilated my face that morning, removing the wisps of my moustache, but it was not enough. It was never enough. There was the indelicate matter of my body, and my fat body, I knew the entire world found grotesque.

I pulled myself back together to go back out, and he greeted me with a bright enough smile. He acted the gentleman, and held the door of the restaurant for me, then showed me out to his car, gallantly unlocking the door for me. If I had been expecting some vintage luxury car, I was, of course disappointed, for he drove an understated family Mercedes now, small and light and probably some weird energy-effecient hybrid that these Germans all favoured. As I fussed with the seatbelt, he actually found a pair of driving gloves on the dashboard, and pulled them down over his wrists, as if we were headed for the Indie 500 instead of just Carlsplatz. An amusing affectation, but I was pleased to see those moments where he was exactly like his public image.

True to his reputation, he was an extremely competent driver, snapping the stick shift with elegant precision, and also highly courteous. At least twice, I saw him wave another car through in those narrow streets with their unclear rights of way. And as he drove, he told me little snippets of German history, pointing out where Napoleon would have entered the city, and where the medieval walls would have been. It was unexpected - Ralf Hütter, history buff - but charming, and the pride he took in his hometown was almost palpable. As he scouted for a parking spot, he gave me a whistlestop tour of scenes from his band's life.

"That, as you know, was where the Mata Hari used to be. Oh, it was a really wonderful place to enjoy a cocktail, to see without being seen. Not as nice as Match Moore was, now that was an elegant establishment, you know, very cool... I'll show you where that was, later. And up there, that is the Kunsthalle, where we played our very first gig as Kraftwerk... oh, but of course, you know all of this, you wrote about it."

I laughed, as I hadn't wanted to tell him exactly how closely I had dogged his band's historical steps during my research. "But where inside did you play? That, I could not figure out."

"I will show you... if we ever find a parking space, that is. Keep your eyes open... oh and that, right there, that used to be the Creamcheese Club. We played there several times in our youth, at the invitation of Joseph Beuys himself. Oh, but here we are at Ratingerstrasse already and there is no stopping. But that, you know, was the Hof, it's such a pity they closed it down. It was such an interesting place to meet the young musicians of Düsseldorf whom we inspired." He turned the car down another side street, circling the pedestrianised area at the centre of the Altstadt. We got to another corner, and he signalled to turn left, but up ahead, I saw the blink of an indicator.

"Look, just up there, I think they're coming out..."

"Ah-ha," said Ralf triumphantly, and he slid into place behind the emerging car. It was a tight spot, but he gently reversed the car perfectly into place, with only the tiniest amount of adjustment. "It's a shame, we are quite far from Carlsplatz, almost as far as if we'd just walked from K21. But... if you like, I can give you a short tour of our beautiful Altstadt?"

I would have jumped at the chance, even if he had not beamed at me quite so proudly as to be irresistible. And yes, it was worth it. He pointed out various locations and told me the bars and the venues and the discos that used to be there, even if he did not supply anecdotes with quite the appetite of Wolfgang's book. We stuck our heads into the Kunsthalle, and he charmed the attendant into allowing him to quickly walk me up and point out the balcony where the band had once played. He took me by the arm and guided me down the narrow alley of Schneider-Wibbel-Gasse, past throngs of tourists, eating and drinking under outdoor heaters, pointing out the mysterious doorway that once led into Mora's. And I ate it up like a tourist, snapping photos and trying surreptitiously to make notes in my sketchbook, until he laughed and told me it was perfectly alright to take notes; he didn't mind at all.

"And here is the Cafe Bittner," he told me as we reached the market square. I loved Carlsplatz, even though I suspected it was overpriced and touristy. I loved the brightly coloured stalls with their heaving piles of produce, the tiny little eateries with maybe half a dozen seats, the smell of frying fat from the Kartoffel stand, the alluring aroma of ground coffee, and yes, even the slight tang of the fishmonger. Now that it had turned cold, I could see that the ice cream stands had been replaced by mulled wine and hot cider. Had Ralf not taken me in hand, I might have wandered off towards one, entranced, but he took my elbow again and guided me firmly to the jaunty red and white shopfront of Cafe Bittner. "But of course it hadn't always been here; it used to be on the Kö, I will show you later, if you like."

"Ja, hallo, mein Herr!" As we got to the door, he had clearly been intending to open it for me but one of the staff made a display of sweeping it open and greeting Ralf with the warmth and graciousness as if he were visiting royalty rather than just a local celebrity. They exchanged greetings in rapid-fire German and we were whisked off to one of the very best tables in front of the large front windows, though whether this was for our amusement, or their ability to show off their celebrity guest, I was not quite sure.

The maitre d' asked Ralf if he would have 'his usual' and he nodded his assent, but he asked for a menu for me. Not wanting to risk another cup of coffee when I was already buzzing, I plumped for a slice of chocolate cherry cake, and another bottle of sparkling water. And then Ralf leaned forward, dug into his ice cream, and told me to go ahead and pester him with my million questions.


	3. Wordplay at the Cafe Bittner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the Journalist gets to interview Ralf, on every subject from spirituality to femininity to his Lacoste polo shirts. And yes, she does find out his favourite tree.

This time, sitting in the luxurious comfort of Cafe Bittner, I did not hold back. I let loose the fannish inquisition. And to my surprise, Ralf was actually very helpful, as he clearly thought about my questions, tapping his mouth as he mused on them, and gave surprisingly comprehensive answers. I had read a lot of interviews over the past ten years where Ralf was evasive or just plain slippery, supplying ready-made answers in sheer promotional mode. I had no idea why he chose to be honest with me. Maybe because there wasn't a press officer and a magazine editor between us; maybe because he was genuinely interested by my questions. 

His answers were actually interesting, and often very funny, in a sly way. He had a distinctive way of circling around words until he got to the specific concept that he needed. It didn't even seem to be holes in his English, as he was quick and fluent, but more just the way that he thought, spiralling in on thoughts, rather than leaping on them directly. I started to watch his body language very carefully, the way that he would tilt his head to one side and back slightly and look up into the air as he was thinking, or formulating out loud, and then thrust his chin forward and down with a decisive little nod as he finally came to the conclusion he wished to share.

"When you talk about your Gesamtkunstwerk, you seem to imply that you had this plan all along. Did you _really_ start with this idea, from the very beginning, or was it something you explored as you went along, and only realised was a deliberate path as you looked backwards?"

Ralf smiled mischievously over his ice cream. "Do you expect me to say anything except, 'of course we planned it all along'? Please allow me my advantage point of age and perspective. I feel I have earned it."

I ate a bite of cake, savouring the sour of the cherry against the sweetness of the chocolate, and carefully licked the prongs clean. "It doesn't sound like you had a plan on Kraftwerk 2 or on Ralf und Florian, or even Autobahn. I think you were experimenting. There's a really charming naïveté to your early experimental material."

Ralf grinned, nodding at me meaningfully. "Of course. But as I always say; _all_ music is experimental." But then he leaned back and thought about the question. "On those early albums, you are correct; we had not yet found our way. They were, as you say, naive. But once we found our direction... we moved forward very directly from there. You have to understand how driven I was as a young man. We knew we were on a very specific and singular path. We knew we were moving forward, moving towards something, though it was not always clear to see where it would take us. I have always had these... obsessions. And I know that if I follow these obsessions, follow them through all the way to the end, see where they go to, that it feels very _right_ while I am doing it. When we were building our body of work, we were constantly following this kind of obsession. And after a time, the body of work took on its own mass, its own centre of gravity that pulled us in the correct direction. So it might not have been planned from the very start, but I still knew what we were doing, and that we had to do it."

"Listening to the music, all of it in a row, one can see the progression, the _musical_ path start to become clear. But if you were to just pick up an album from either end... I mean, how on earth did you manage to go, in ten years, from Vom Himmel Hoch, to Computer World. This is not even the same band."

"Well, no. Different accompanists, different people worked with us, different instrumentation, but the ideas were similar."

"Well, there were motifs that you turned back to again and again. Your own little personal signatures..."

"Yes, the little two note riff. You noticed this. I confess, I am very fond of this motif."

"But the style was so different, to move from such anarchic, free-form music to such carefully controlled, perfectly constructed and structured compositions. I mean, did you make a conscious turn towards dance music, or was it more of a decision to turn from free-form improvised chaos and noise, towards this more formal, structured kind of music, that just happened to be danceable?"

A short laugh. "But this is not true. We still, to this day, use improvisation. The technology has changed, has caught up with us, so that we are finally able to improvise with entire building blocks of music, which was not possible with the old-fashioned sequencers. This was why we performed with live percussionists, rather than the drum machines. The flexibility. Improvisation is responsiveness, expressiveness, expression." A nod as he arrived at the last word, before he thought for another moment, and added. "And also, people did dance to our chaos. I know you have seen the films. People loved to dance to Ruckzuck. It has always been important to me, that people dance at the concerts."

"Why is dancing important to you?"

He tilted his head back as if considering this. "Dancing is a form of expression, is it not? A form of art, as in ballet? Or... how do they call it, in Middle Eastern dance, in Asian dance, where every hand gesture, every movement of the leg tells a story. It is a form of communication. We communicate with the audience by playing our music, and they communicate back to us, with their movements, by their motion, by their manipulation of their bodies. We enjoy it more, on the stage, when people dance, because they are communicating their response directly back to us.."

"I hear you still love clubbing."

"Yes. This is important to us, when we tour. I like to go out, after a concert, and dance. Even now. I like it more than ever."

"What do _you_ communicate, when you dance?"

For a moment, that actually flummoxed him, as he tilted his head back and slightly to the side, as if realising he could not deny this without contradicting himself. "I don't know. I suppose it depends on the circumstances, on the evening, even on the music we are listening to."

"So it's not a vertical expression of a horizontal desire?" I teased, and licked a cherry off the end of my fork.

He smirked back at me, with a definite raising of one eyebrow. "Sometimes; yes, perhaps. When one dances with a woman." But then his expression grew serious again. "But it is more than that. It's personal. It's what you wrote; to move to music is to feel at peace with one's physicality, with one's body. And it is also a way to physically _experience_ music. To become one with music. It's hard to explain, as a musician, what music is _for_. I don't actually listen to much music, in my house. I prefer silence, and contemplation. I like natural sounds the best. When I'm cycling, the rush of the wind, the steady whoosh of the pedals, the hum of the road, when one reaches perfection, when one is completely aerodynamic, it is actually totally silent. And when one is really in that zone of perfection, one enters into a sort of trance state, a oneness with the environment. You, the machine, and the air slipping past you. Dancing is the same. It is the same sort of ecstatic oneness with music."

"What do you mean by ecstasy?"

"Not oblivion," he answered quickly. "Understand me, I have never been particular interested in oblivion, in drugs and so forth. To me, ecstasy is freedom, is oneness, is wholeness... to be one with everything... in German, this word is Einssein. I don't know that I can translate it. The feeling one gets as one approaches perfection... Vollkommenheit. A kind of perfection that comes from wholeness and completeness."

"So you mean ecstasy of the spiritual and not the chemical variety."

"Yes," he answered with total confidence, but then added. "But of course all of these things, emotions and sensations and so forth, they are electrical impulses within our brains, transmitted via chemicals, neurochemistry, neurotransmitters and the like. But they are not artificial chemicals, such as drugs. They are natural."

"But what does artificial mean? Haven't you spent your whole career breaking down the barriers between the so-called 'natural' and the 'artificial'? Haven't you faced enough criticism in your life that synthesisers are artificial?"

A slightly teasing grin, as if he enjoyed being confronted with his own ideas. "Well, I mean that these artificial chemicals, psychotropic drugs and so forth, they are short-cuts. If you have ever played an analogue synthesiser, you know that it is hardly a short-cut."

"You don't find this way of thinking about the brain slightly reductive? It seems to be used so much as a way of taking away freedom, freedom of thought, freedom of choice, reducing us to automatons."

Again, that sly smile. "You may have noticed that I am fascinated by automatons."

"Yet you talk, a lot, about freedom - which I've read in interviews that you equate with becoming human. With being the opposite of an automaton."

"Well, do you not know many people who are, essentially automatons? To use your own metaphor, that these are people who are ruled by this social music, and by the established social dance steps, and are incapable of coming off the automated dance routines that are their lives... or they are afraid to?" His eyes flashed with the spark of defiance.

I pulled back, not wanting to contradict him, but feeling this was a subject best avoided. "With my... _condition_ , I have had to learn not to draw conclusions about other people's motives. I will admit I don't understand them. That is enough, for me."

Ralf looked at me very carefully, but seemed to decide to accept this answer, turning his palms up in a vague shrug, before reaching for his coffee. I could tell he was engaged by the conversation when he left his cup alone long enough for it to grow lukewarm, but calling for fresh coffee was his way of discretely changing the topic.

"You mentioned spirituality," I probed.

His head drew back, as he eyed me slightly curiously, perhaps even with an edge of wariness. "I did not mention spirituality. You asked me if I meant ecstasy 'in a spiritual sense' rather than the drug, and I replied that I did."

"OK, but what does that word mean to you? Spiritual. I've seen you use it a lot, in interviews. To me, that word has a religious connotation, but you are rarely speaking of... sacred subjects. What do you mean by it?"

The wariness dropped from his face as he smiled again. "Well. Thank you for asking, rather than assuming."

"I never assume. It makes an ass out of u and me," I quipped, scratching the letters on the paper placemat in front of me.

He laughed aloud. "That is funny. I enjoy wordplay." But just as quickly, he ended the laugh as if he were flicking a switch, and grew serious again. "I always forget. In German, there are two words, where the English has only one. I mean Geistig, rather than Geistlich. Gestig means spiritual as in, of the spirit, of the thoughts, of the mind, of the higher facilities. Geistlich is what I think you mean, when you say spiritual in a sacred sense. Religious or holy. This is not the sense I intend."

"Are you religious?"

"No." The finality with which he said this indicated that he would talk no further on the subject.

"Are you spiritual?"

"Is this not the same question?" Again, that wariness, like he had not fully decided whether to trust me or not.

"No, not particularly. Music is, well... _holy_ to me. Don't you find music spiritual? For someone who loves Techno and House Music as much as you do, I mean, so much of House comes from Gospel Music - you know the song 'this is our house, and our house music; I am the creator.' It delivers all the promises of spirituality - a communal feeling, a release, a sense of being part of something greater than yourself. You don't feel a sense of spirituality, with regards to music that lifts you that far out of yourself?"

"Yes," he admitted. "I do feel a spiritual connection with House, with Techno, with the music of Detroit." A smile spread slowly across his face again, as he sort of chuckled to himself. "And when I say spiritual in this case, I mean, in German, yet another word:  Spirituell. This means, you see, an emotional or mental quality, that one cannot rationally explain, yet one feels very intensely. I am sorry for the German lesson, but I wish to be precise in these matters. I dislike being misunderstood."

"I am enjoying the German lesson. It's like Sapir-Whorf in reverse, that to learn to speak a language, one has to learn the concepts behind it, even when they don't exist in one's own language. It's not like translating English, it's like learning a whole new way of conceptualising things."

"English is a very slippery language," he observed with a slightly smug smile. "Which is why I love it, why I love speaking it. It is not so precise, like German, as to slice all the nuance out. And it is enjoyable for me to speak on these matters, with an intelligent English speaker, because it is good exercise for me, to see how agile and how fluid it can be."

I blushed slightly at the compliment, for it was obvious from the way he raised his eyebrows and looked at me with a charming smile, that this was what it was intended to be.

Warming to his topic, Ralf leaned forward in his seat, gently tapping on the table with the palm of his hand to enumerate his points. "Let me tell you, what I mean by spirituality. Animals have needs of the body - to eat, to breathe, to defecate, maybe even to copulate. But human beings also have mental, emotional needs. Needs of the spirit. The Geist, in German. The need to feel connected to others. The need to feel useful, to feel creative. But we also, to feel completely human, we have this need to feel at one with the world, deeply connected with our surroundings, to feel this Einssein I talked of just now. Vervollkommung. Becoming whole, being in harmony. Not musical harmony... well, yes. That, too. But harmony with one's world, and one's self. Balance. I, as you know, particularly enjoy walking and cycling in the countryside. I find it clears the mind and feeds the soul. A different kind of spirit - the Seele. To lose oneself completely in oneness with the natural world, is, perhaps it is a contradiction, in that it is the time one feels most alive, most free, as an individual. Do you understand?" He looked at me quite intensely, as if he was very keen not to be misunderstood. "When I speak of the spiritual, I speak of the things that bring me closest to this sensation, to this feeling. I do not mean anything spooky or supernatural. I mean the most natural things of all. Music. Dancing. Cycling. Nature."

"OK, speaking of nature, what's your favourite tree?" I was so happy I had a chance to slip that question in again.

He didn't even bat an eyelid, in fact he positively grinned. "I don't know the name in English. We call it an Eibe. We have several in our garden. It's a conifer, a needle-tree. With bright red berries. Very poisonous, but very beautiful. In the spring, when they get new growth, they have this feathery pattern of light green tips against the dark green. I love this pattern. They start as a small, low... as... what is the word? A bush, a hedge. And then their stämme all braid together into these huge, twisted... Baumstämme?" He looked to me for confirmation.

"Tree-stems..." I said, aloud, then "Trunks! Tree trunks."

"Yes. The braided trunks. They can grow to be fantastically old. The oldest tree in Germany, is one of these types of trees. Die Alte Eibe von Balderschwang, in Bavaria. This is my favourite tree."

"That sounds like a Yew Tree, to me. Evergreen, with a long row of short, parallel needles on either side, like a feather? Bright red berries in the winter? They plant them in churchyards, in Britain. They are thought to be sacred - spiritual in your Geistlich sense."

"Yes, yes, this is the species. They do the same in Germany. Plant them in churchyards. You must come to my house. I will show you. They are very thick, so they are very private."

I swallowed nervously, and licked my lips. "Yes. The hedge around your house is definitely a yew. I remember it."

He laughed. "I forget you had been there. This is how much I enjoy the conversation; I lose myself. This is fun. What other questions do you have for me?"

"What kind of questions do you like to be asked?"

"I don't know," he shrugged and paused to consider this. "I like being asked about trees. That is a good question. An enjoyable question. As I enjoy nature. Oh... I don't know what kinds of questions I like to be asked. But I know what kind of questions I do _not_ like to be asked."

"Go on, tell me."

"When is the new album coming out." A roll of the eyes followed by a decided grin.

"What else?"

"Oh, I don't know. Wait, yes, I do. You know the type of question. These very technical... I think in English they call them _trainspotters_. What type of effects unit did you use to make this specific sound at 6 minutes and 42 seconds of Autobahn? Tell me the settings you used on the compressor! What was the exact speed of the oscillator. Honestly! It was 40 years ago! I do not remember!"

I laughed aloud. "I'm more interested in how you did the high harmony on Glitzerstrahl... and why you don't sing it any more. That's my favourite bit, and you don't even do it."

Ralf shrugged apologetically. "I no longer have the vocal range I had at 27. My voice has deepened. I have better sustain, lower down, but my upper range has gone."

"It's a shame. It's the best bit."

"You really like that harmony?" He seemed tickled by the sudden burst of fandom.

I nodded as enthusiastically as a fangirl. "I love that word. Glitzerstrahl. And it really, truly sounds like crepuscular rays breaking through the clouds, when your voice leapt the octave. You have such a beautiful voice."

"I really don't, but you are sweet to say."

"You don't like your voice?"

"Well. Not really, no." He wriggled in his seat as if he were slightly embarrassed; it was actually quite adorable to see. "I have always tried to sing lower, to deepen my range, because I find my natural tone is too high. Too boyish, maybe even too feminine."

"And what's wrong with being feminine?"

"Aaah," he said, waggling his finger at me. "I knew this question was coming. I have been waiting for it." The waitress thought that he was beckoning her over, and brought a refill of coffee, but when she left, he turned back to me. "You are going to ask me about my masculinity."

"Well I can if you like. I hadn't got there yet."

"It is an intriguing topic. You know, men, when they interview me, they never ask me about things like... the clothes. We thought the clothes were very important. We still do." As he said this, he sat up a bit straighter, and his leather jacket fell open slightly to reveal a familiar crocodile-shaped logo just above his left breast.

"You're wearing Lacoste," I observed, trying and failing to keep the giggle out of my voice.

"Yes?" he said with a faintly proud smile. Leaning forward, he finally removed his jacket and draped it across the back of his chair, to show that he was wearing a long-sleeve polo shirt, buttoned up all the way to the top.

"No, it's just the last thing I ever thought you'd wear," I stuttered.

"Why?" His smile didn't fade; he seemed amused by the subject.

"It's just a bit... you know... Preppy. Though I suppose in Europe, it doesn't have that connotation. I guess on you, it's more Mod."

"I was too young for Mod," said Ralf softly, smoothing down his arms as if showing off the garment. "To me, this is the clothing that sportsmen wear. Tennis players. Golf professionals. And does not your Bradley Wiggins wear such clothes?"

I burst out laughing. "Bradley Wiggins wears Fred Perry because he's a mod."

Ralf's eyes twinkled as he leaned forward, lowering his voice. "How can be a mod, when he has a beard?"

I burst out laughing, as Ralf grinned at me. "Point taken," I conceded. "I am sorry for the digression."

"Do not be." I could see the pleasure all over his face. "I enjoy the conversation. I do like clothes. I like the way stylish garments look, and I do enjoy thinking about the sartorial meaning of certain styles. Clothing is a language. Do you know, it was Florian's sisters who taught me this. Florian, in particular, was always very interested in clothes. And yet, men never ask us about them in interviews. Women, though, they ask us about things like that. They ask about our feminine side. I like this. We are interviewed by women so rarely. It is a shame."

"Do you feel like you have a feminine side, then? Can men not be interested in clothes, as men."

"Yes, of course," he conceded. "It is a very European thing. But I do also think that in a way I do, very definitely, have a feminine side. As I said before, this was an image that we played with, a lot. We enjoyed expressing our feminine sides. It was a thing we enjoyed playing with, like a paint box. It was a deliberate choice, to explore this."

"But what do you mean by your feminine side?" I probed. "Do you mean the make-up?"

"No, I mean, more than the make-up. This is something that you caught, when you spoke of Antenna. You thought it was about being bisexual, well, not quite. I don't mind... as I said, we knew many homosexuals, I do not have any problem with it. But the song is about being both masculine and feminine, about being both sender and receiver. I liked this idea. Communication; sensitivity. You know, we wished to present ourselves as we were, as highly sensitive, and emotional beings. It hurt me when people said that we were cold, or unemotional. We thought we were quite the reverse."

"Well, you are, I find, quite formal," I confessed. "But that is not the same thing as cold or unemotional. I think you come across as rather formal because you are never sure about the tone, and you do not wish to cause offence. I don't think you are stiff through insensitivity. In fact, you strike me as really particularly sensitive."

He smiled charmingly, as if he were flattered by this observation, but then seemed to need almost immediately to deflect it. "Well, perhaps. Perhaps I am even overly sensitive. Some people would tell you this. I know I am not the most masculine of men, this is true. This does not bother me. I like to think I am an intellectual. A technocrat. This has always been seen as slightly effete. Well, I don't mind being slightly effete. My voice, I know, is naturally very soft. I do not like to speak loudly, though I have had to learn to speak more clearly. My gestures, I was constantly told at school, were not very manly. I did not mind this. I had no desire to be manly. I simply wished to _be_ , as I was."

"Are these things feminine, per se, though?"

He looked at me very carefully. "You tell me. What do you think it means, to be feminine?"

"I don't know," I confessed. "Femininity was something that was imposed upon me by force. So I have always experienced femininity as a kind of constraint. You need to be smaller, quieter, to take up less space..."

Ralf laughed very gently, and when I looked over, he had a slightly 'I told you so' expression on his face. It was then that I noticed how he was sitting, with his legs crossed at the knee so as to take up less space on the seat, with his elbows folded in on themselves, his soft patient voice, this small, neat, very restrained man.

"All of my girlfriends have always told me, I am a rather feminine man. I know there is both masculine and feminine to me. I accept this. It seems very natural to me. I know I am a man, I have a man's body, people treat me as if I am a man. But I am very comfortable with the feminine elements that there are to me. And I am very comfortable with people who are not completely masculine, or feminine." The way he leaned forward and looked at me very carefully as he said this, I got the distinct impression that he was trying, in his own way, to reach out to me. "In fact, I often prefer these types of people. Florian was like this, both masculine and feminine, both yin and yang. And you seem, to me, like this, too."

"Are you trying to flatter me again?" I asked, feeling my cheeks flush. Ralf just _did_ something to me, that made me feel giggly and flustered like a little girl.

"Do you not like to be flattered? You have flattered me greatly."

I had no idea how long we sat there, talking. It seemed both a lifetime, and also about only five minutes, far too short a time to ask my idol everything I wanted to know. He seemed to enjoy himself, and showed absolutely no inclination to leave, waving to the waitress whenever he wanted a refill of coffee, though our cakes were long done. I could have stayed there forever, never quite wanting the evening to be finished, just watching his intelligent blue eyes dart up towards the ceiling as he thought about something, and then back down towards me with a smile. His smile made me ever so slightly weak in the knees, this shy boyish expression, peering out of this gentle, grandfatherly face.

And then abruptly, as a demanding beep emitted from the cuff of his jacket, he seemed to startle, then stared down at his watch, pulling back his sleeve to stop what I now realised was an alarm. "My goodness, where has the time gone. I have to be back in Krefeld at 5, to pick my daughter up from her riding lessons." A faintly soppy paternal smile. "She loves animals, you see. She is quite obsessed. I will not be reprimanded too much for being late, as it gives her a few extra minutes with her pony. But we must go." He waved his hand for the cheque, though again, he would not hear of my paying. "May I give you a ride back to your accommodation?"

"Honestly, Ralf, it's fine. I am staying five minutes walk away. You've been too kind to me. Go to your family."

But still, he looked at me hopefully, as if he wasn't quite finished with me, as we walked out to the sidewalk. "Walk with me to my car?" he asked, and I could not refuse, even though we were both aware it was the opposite direction to my lodgings. And once we were at his car, he insisted on giving me a lift as far as the bridge, because he insisted it would more pleasant for me to walk back to the Bergerallee along the river than through the town. And then at the bridge, he peeled off the main section of traffic to a side street, and pulled over, eyeing me carefully as if he wanted to ask me something, and for a horrible moment, I was afraid he was going to ask me to come all the way back to Krefeld with him, but fortunately, no. "How long are you in our city for?" he asked, his eyes wide with questioning.

"My train is on Sunday."

"Are you free tomorrow afternoon?" he demanded with a bright expression.

"I... I could be," I stuttered. "Why? What did you have in mind."

"I want to show you something. Will you come out to Klingklang?"

"What... you mean..." It took me a moment to grasp what he was asking. "Not Mintropstrasse, but new Klingklang?"

"Yes, the new headquarters. Out in Meerbusch, you can get there on the tram, it goes from the station just there." He pointed back across the main road to the U-bahn station by the Tonhalle.

"I... of course." As if I were going to say anything but yes. "Tell me where and when."

"Meerbusch Görgesheide is the station. I believe there is a tram that arrives at 12.24. I will meet you just opposite the platform."

"Yes, OK," I stuttered, still not believing what he had just offered. "I'll... yes, I'll look it up on the schedule and... yes. Wow. Thank you for everything, but... wow. Thank you."

Again, that dismissive gesture of embarrassment as he gestured with his fingers towards my door. "Yes, yes. Now you must get out of the car unless you want to come to Uerdingen Stables with me." I laughed and forced myself to climb out. "Tschüss, see you tomorrow!" he called, and drove off with a curt wave before I could blurt out "Bis morgen."


	4. Diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Journalist arrives out at the new Klingklang, she finds that Ralf has gathered some unique - and highly personal - material for her. But as research for what?

By the time I got back to my accommodation on the Berger Allee, I could hardly believe any of it had happened. My host, Karlheinz, bellowed his greetings as he heard me entering the flat. He was a large, genial, completely eccentric retiree, with whom I had stayed on my first visit to Düsseldorf, striking up a jolly and slightly familial relationship. When I called back a greeting to him, he appeared, sticking his head around the door of the kitchen. I nodded hello and poured myself a glass of wine and sat down at the kitchen table to try to get my head around what had just happened.

"So how went it?" he demanded, in his wobbly but charming Gymnasium English.

"Amazing. Fantastic. I can't really believe it just happened."

"Did you make any pictures?" he asked, terribly curious about this pop star that had caused me to visit his hometown twice, now. I nodded wearily. Ralf had allowed me to take exactly two photos, one inside the Kunsthalle and the other inside Cafe Bittner, though he had expressly forbade them from turning up on the internet. "Show me!"

I dug out my phone and showed him one of Ralf standing patiently on the staircase of the Kunsthalle, and the other of him sitting drinking coffee at the Cafe Bittner, smiling very elegantly and benignly, like a small Mafia don.

"Ach, he is too old for you," Karlheinz said dismissively.

"He's younger than you," I teased right back.

"So was it worth it, this interview?"

I nodded slowly, pulling out my sketchbook and looking through my notes. "Yes. And it's not even over. He invited me out to the studio tomorrow. The big studio, out near Krefeld."

"And so you will be up at the crack of dawn again, and on the first tram to Krefeld... Ach! Enjoy yourself, just don't wake me up..."

I laughed, but a few hours later, as I was scribbling down my impressions of the afternoon in my diary, there was the ping of an email dropping into my iPhone. I opened it to find a short email from Ralf, detailing exactly which tram to catch. He was nothing if not thorough.

And of course I was 20 minutes early for the tram, though I didn't dare to jump on the earlier one, and hung about the platform, reading and re-reading my notes, jotting down follow-up questions that I wanted to ask him. The tram, when it finally came, wasn't very full, so I was able to get a window seat up at the front, and enjoy the views going through the posh suburbs of Oberkassel and out into the countryside of Meerbusch. As my stop drew near, I became more and more nervous. Of course I'd been nervous the day before, but I think in the depths of my heart, I hadn't really expected him to turn up. So today, with the terrifying expectation that he _was_ going to turn up at the station, somehow this filled me with even more dread.

Only two other people got off at the stop, a woman in a business suit, clearly headed for her office, and a fellow dressed as a maintenance man, carrying a toolbox. And then there was me, trying not to look out of place in my black leather jacket as I stalked across the platform. Ralf wasn't there. I tried not to panic, as I thought through the possibilities, as he did not strike me as a man given to tardiness. Had I caught the wrong tram? Got off at the wrong stop? There wasn't a barrier, so I stepped off the platform to the pavement, but he wasn't there, either. Glancing at my phone to check his email revealed I had caught the correct tram and arrived at the right time. But where was Ralf?

As I stepped out towards the kerb, I dug through my phone, wondering if he had included the phone number of the studio in his email. And at that moment, a familiar small, gunboat grey Mercedes town car pulled up in front of me and tooted pertly, "Beep beep!" as Ralf reached over and opened the door for me. Of course he had been waiting in the car. How could I have doubted him?

"Always on the Handy," he said, in a tone that could have been teasing or could have been a slight admonishment, were it not for the tight smile on his lips. "You young people and your Handys, always peering into these silver boxes and not paying attention to people."

"There are _people_ in my Handy," I insisted, slightly defensively. "In fact, you are one of the people in my Handy. I was checking your email to make sure I had the correct time."

"Me, in your Handy. This is a nonsense," scoffed Ralf, but his tight smile turned to a grin that revealed a neat line of teeth, as I opened up the email and showed him. Both of us laughed, and the moment of tension passed.

It was maybe 1500 metres from the station back to the office park where he told me they were headquartered. We could have walked it easily, but Ralf just seemed to enjoy driving, parking in front of the building in a spot labelled "Reserviert: Klingklang GmbH".

This time, as I climbed out of the car, he looked me up and down, and smiled, in fact he actually beamed, with a little tight-lipped nod. For a moment, I was confused. I was not dressed any differently from the previous day - I had on different black jeans, a new black T-shirt and of course my leather jacket - but Ralf just looked more content, even pleased, than he had when looking me up and down the previous day. It took me a moment to work out that it was not me that had changed, but him. As he put his pass-card into the security system, then held the door open for me, he stood up extra-straight, and I realised with a start that today he actually seemed taller than me.

'You are kidding me,' I thought to myself as followed him up a short flight of steps, and caught sight of his feet ahead of me on the stairs. The previous day, he had been wearing matte black walking boots with a technological looking fastening system and very flat soles that were worn down slightly at the back. Today, he was wearing a very elegant pair of black chelsea boots, with a good inch and a half heel on the back of them. For a second, the thought flashed across my mind: what if he hadn't been put off by my weight, but by my _height_?

No, don't be absurd. As if Ralf Hütter would have made the faintest effort to impress me? Completely unlikely. The spring in his step was clearly only down to the same reason as the audible excitement in his voice as he delighted in showing off his band's swish new facilities. He was proud of his toys, and eager to share them with an enthusiast. I got a whistle-stop tour, First, a merchandising room with a couple of computer terminals and shelves and shelves of T-shirts, CDs, messenger bags and other attractively branded consumer goods. He asked me if I wanted a T-shirt. Was I honestly supposed to say no? I told him I'd love one, if they could spare one.

"Which is your favourite album?" he asked, looking up and down the racks.

"Radioactivity. Come on, you should know that, from the blog."

"Yes, but it was also your least favourite when you were complaining about The Mix," he pointed out, as he found the correct pile. "What size?"

"A large - a men's large."

As he pulled out the correct garment, I went for my wallet, but he waved it aside. "It is my gift to you. But let me just leave a note for Gudrun, that I have taken it."

As he scribbled on a post-it note, I looked at the shirt, a dark grey item with a radio-tower beaming out airwaves. It was absolutely perfect. Quickly, I stowed it away in my bag before he could change his mind.

But, the note complete, Ralf led me on through into the depths of the building. A small library, climate controlled, full of tape canisters, film reels and magnetic storage discs, led through into a media centre with a couple of swish looking workstations where serious-looking young technicians were digitally manipulating images on a screen. Ralf introduced me briefly, and I shook hands as a tall, bespectacled German explained that they were customising the projections for local stops on the next tour, which was South America. But before I had the chance to ask any questions, Ralf whisked me away again into the next chamber of delights. Another climate-controlled room, this one like a museum, with ancient, well-worn synthesisers set out in banks and banks of glass cabinets like botanical specimen cases. I stopped to stare, wondering if this was _the_ exact ARP, but Ralf tutted gently, said something to the effect that I could see more of that later, and moved me swiftly on.

"This, you might like to see," he almost chuckled to himself, leading me off the main axis of the building, through pair of double doors into a small room that turned out to be the control room of a recording studio, with a large, 64 channel mixing desk dominating the space. "Ah, I thought that would please you," he said with a slight nod, then leaned forward and flicked a light-switch. Through the glass above the mixing desk, where I would have expected to see a recording studio or an isolation booth, I suddenly saw a huge, cavernous hall, set up with their stage gear, including the four distinctive podiums in an array on a stage at the opposite end.

I gasped, and then turned to him with a bright smile. "So, did you invite me here to give me a little concert, then?"

"Haha, maybe, perhaps... if you're lucky." For a moment, his eyes twinkled, but then he shut off the light in the hall and led me back out through the same door we'd entered. We went through another couple of small, brightly lit workshops like musical labs, littered with computer workstations and disembodied electronic keyboards spread out on metal trays that looked like operating tables. We passed another couple of technicians of some kind, and Ralf introduced me like a proud CEO remembering the names of all the mailroom staff, but I didn't recognise their names. Rudi? Robbo? One was an almost comically geeky South Asian dude, so skinny that his Doc Martins stuck out at the end of his legs. The other was a round, slightly plump blond geek, apparently reduced to stuttering shyness by the presence of a female.

Eventually, we came to a large, bright room with a brushed metal table and a coffee machine - it might have been a board room or a cafeteria, with large windows, though the view was only of the parking lot. "Have you eaten?" asked Ralf.

"I just ate my breakfast on the tram," I confessed.

"Ah." If he was disappointed, he didn't show it. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Go on, twist my arm." I gave in, as Ralf went to the coffeemaker - another matte metal machine, all completely automated, and pressed some buttons to obtain two espressos.

"Do you take milk?"

"Yes, please."

"I hope this is enough. If you want more, there is some in the fridge." As he pointed, I realised that what I had taken for some decorative panelling was actually a fridge and cupboards. "And now, please come upstairs."

He smiled his gracious host smile, and led me up a thin, spidery metal staircase. I realised, as we got to the top, that this was a kind of mezzanine level from which you could look down, through the glassed floor, into the various labs and museums like a factory overseer. I had to suppress a little laugh as Ralf gestured down towards his employees, scurrying like ants below. "I neglected to warn you, it is not a good idea to wear a skirt here. But it is lucky you do not seem to be a skirt-wearing type of a woman."

At the end of the catwalk, there was a waiting area with a couple of leather sofas, then a small room that looked like it was intended as a secretary's office, though the desk was empty and there was no chair. And then, beyond that, was Ralf's lair.

Well, really, it was only a very beautifully designed and sleek office, done in a retro-modernist 1930s style, all matte black leather with shiny ebony and chrome fittings. But since the light was so dimmed compared to outside, and it was a few degrees warmer than the airy, exposed catwalk had been, it very much felt like some kind of super-villain's lair. There was a large black desk with futuristically rounded corners, though it was difficult to tell if it was the latest German design or an antique from 1930. This supported a very expensive looking high-end media Mac with a monitor as big as a mattress. To the side of the desk was a a full, 88-key electric piano or MIDI keyboard or something, but if I'd been expecting gold records, I would have been disappointed. The only artwork was a pair of exquisite, silver-framed 1920s cycling posters in a dynamic streamline moderne style.

"Please... sit," he directed, gesturing towards a long, low sofa, so deep that one could easily have slept on it. I did as I was told, wondering if he was going to position himself at his desk like the Geschäftsführer he clearly saw himself as. But no, he perched there for only a moment, to locate a paper storage box made of marbled cardboard. This, he carried over, and placed on the floor in front of him as he sat at the opposite end of the sofa, staring at me expectantly. "So. What do you think."

"It's very swish." I provided my first reaction without really thinking it through properly.

His pleasant expression faltered slightly. "Is that good or bad?"

I stopped and tried to think it through. "It's beautifully designed. Everything is so ergonomic, and so perfectly put together. It must be very simple, a pure pleasure to work here." It also felt oddly sterile, compared with the tiny, cramped, slightly tatty atmosphere of the studio on Mintropstrasse, but I knew better than to say that. Obviously a lot of thought and work had gone into the building and layout of Ralf's new domain.

"Yes. It is very beautiful, isn't it." As Ralf looked around, at the understated yet clearly expensive elegance of his office, his face grew every so slightly wistful for a moment. "To tell you a secret, sometimes I miss the old premises by the railway station. They were not beautiful, and not really very efficient, but we had a lot of tun there." For the tiniest fraction of a moment, an expression of bewildered pain crossed his face, but he restored his composure very quickly. "But this is the future, yes? Always moving forward. Always in motion."

I bit my lip, but smiled back, pretending I hadn't seen the pain. "What's in the box?" I asked, changing the subject diplomatically.

"Ah." Bending down, he removed the lid, revealing a grid of small, almost identical notebooks bound in black leather. "I have been debating whether to show these to you."

"What are they?"

But when Ralf had decided to be mysterious, nothing could get any information out of him. He pulled one out, leafed through it, then replaced it again, before pulling one out a few books down. "No, that one won't be of much interest to you." He put it back, and pulled out a third, scanning a few pages before nodding decisively. "Here, try this one." He thrust the book forward into my hands with an impish little grin I was starting to think of as customary.

At the top of the first page was written very carefully "Ralf Hütter" and a telephone number and address in Krefeld that I didn't recognise. The second page was blank, but on the third page, at the top, there was a date - in late 1976 - and then a disorganised scrawl marching in tight rows down the page in black ink. As I scanned the German text, it took me a few moments to realise that it was a diary.

"Oh my god, is this your diary? I can't read this... this has to be private," I stuttered, barely daring to touch the pages.

"I am _asking_ you to read it" insisted Ralf. "If you can read it, that is. I thought you said you could read German perfectly well?"

"Well... your handwriting..." I mumbled, but felt like my pride had been piqued, so I stared to translate on the fly. "Today, we have... the little... no, we have been working on the little train tune. Flori has, with great heaviness... difficulty... a good sound upon the new... sound-orderer?"

"Tone-sequencer," supplied Ralf, and I had a sudden vision of him as a proud father, teaching his daughter to read.

"...has made. Oh. Florian has, with some difficulty, created a good sound for the sequencer. Karl had, with great noise and hard banging, at the sheets of metal, with... Zange? Tongs? a very good and steady dance-beat written. The klanging... the sound of metal interests us greatly." I looked up at him, astonished. "The little train song... are these your notes from recording Trans Europe Express?"

Ralf beamed. "Well, you get the idea."

"I..." I looked back down at the page, wishing I had brought a dictionary, or better yet a magnifying glass to decipher some of his script, astonished that such a document even existed. Lowering my voice to a whisper, I flipped forward a few days in the book, pausing to read a description of a ride in the countryside, a lunch with Florian's family, and then a casual remark about recording footsteps in the hall to get just the right amount of echo for The Hall of Mirrors. "Why are you showing me this?" I whispered, too awed to even breath on the pages.

"I thought you might be interested. As a fan... as a writer."

"I am," I sighed, flipping through another page. "This is a... this is a treasure trove. These are artefacts of... crucial historical importance."

He smiled tightly. "I'm glad you think so. I had thought... well, one doesn't think these things as one is writing them. But I have, perhaps a little arrogantly, wondered if they might become so, over the years."

Shaking my head, I peered into the box. "How many years are here?"

"Well. In that box? From 1965 up until 1988. There are more at home, but some of these things are private. I must check. I thought this would be good, to start."

"You'll let me read these?" I asked, barely believing what he was offering. There was no way I could translate nearly 30 years of diaries in an afternoon. "May I take photos?"

"I would prefer if you did not," he said, with a slight guarded edge to his voice that indicated this was not a preference but an order. "I must work, this afternoon. But I shan't go far. You may peruse them while I am here. Take notes, if you will, but please no photos."

I shrugged, and picked up the diary again, but almost immediately I came upon another technical word I didn't recognise, so I unthinkingly picked up my phone to check Google Translate.

"I said no photos," Ralf repeated, with growing alarm.

"I need a dictionary. I usually use one online," I explained, holding out the phone so that he could see it was only Google Translate, not the camera.

Ralf frowned, then walked over to a shiny black expanse of wall, depressing a slight hollow until it swung back and revealed a ceiling-high bookshelf, loaded with books, manuals and magazines. Almost immediately, he located a large, technical German-English / English-German dictionary, then turned and extended it towards to me. "Please... use mine." I took it and looked up the term - electrical-voltage-converter - but he pointed at my phone, still lying on the chair beside me, and gestured for me to put it in my bag. "If we could be without the Handy for the afternoon?" I switched it to silent and did as I was told.

And with this accomplished, Ralf got up and retreated to his desk. As he started up the computer and set down to work, I kept glancing at him every few seconds, continually expecting him to change his mind and seize the diaries away from me, but no. He settled down, soon engrossed in his work, and left me to my translation.

It felt almost spooky, to read the Ralf of 40 years earlier, his voice speaking to me so clearly and so self-confidently, while his septuagenarian doeppelganger sat only a few metres away, typing hesitantly at his computer. I had grown used to his voice, his accent, his soft, clipped consonants flowing almost in a torrent out of his mouth, as if it were a struggle to get the words out, so it was hard not to read the young man's words in the older man's voice. HIs confidence, his self-belief staggered me. In a way, I had often wanted to believe that their achievements were almost accidental, feeling around in the dark until they hit something they liked. But the Ralf of 1976, as 2016 Ralf had asserted, seemed completely driven, single-minded in his pursuit of the sounds, the themes, the melodies that he wanted.

He didn't actually sound lonely; he sounded utterly absorbed in his work. He seemed happy, almost strikingly so, for a man I'd seen portrayed as isolated and shy. In fact, he was endearing, and often slightly funny, playing the same word games on paper that he delighted in, in speech. I had to check puns every now and then, and occasionally struggled very hard not to laugh out loud. Eventually, I finally succumbed, after a particularly witty description of the hapless Wolfgang's misunderstanding of a particularly technical music term that Karl had used, let out a guffaw that turned into a squawk as I tried to suppress it, but the description was just too plausible.

Across the room, Ralf looked up. He had put on a pair of chunky black-framed glasses to use the computer, and he was looking over the top of them with a faint grin that seemed to make his words all the more hilarious. "Has something amused you?" he asked, not accusingly, but more that he wanted me to share the joke.

"You are a very funny man, Herr Hütter," I told him, though I did not want to risk bringing up the source of my mirth.

"As you English say, funny ha-ha, or funny peculiar?" A stern but particularly adorable glance over the top of the glasses.

"Lustig, nicht komisch," I assured him.

He smiled, pushed his glasses back up his nose, but then looked at his coffee cup. I presumed it must have been empty, because he turned back to me and asked "Another cup of coffee, perhaps?"

I opened my mouth to say, actually yeah, that would be lovely... then closed it again, thinking, oh my god, I cannot allow Ralf Hütter to make me a cup of coffee. But then I saw his slightly expectant expression, and realised this was not the meaning of the question. In any other situation, I would have told any other impertinent old man that I was not a secretary, and I did not make coffee, but come on. This was Ralf Hütter. I swallowed nervously, and said, non-committally. "Could do. Would you like one?"

Ralf grinned. This was the correct answer. "Oh yes, please, if you're going down." As I stood up and collected both cups, he added. "While you're down there, would you mind fetching me a sandwich? I am particularly fond of the humus and avocado, if there are any left..."

I smiled through my teeth, and thought of the treasure trove of the diaries. "Certainly."

When I got down to the kitchen area, I found I was not alone. A small, slight figure was bent over the coffeemaker, and at first I took it for a boy until it turned around, and flashed a smile at me from under a shock of short, spiky purple-pink hair. I realised it was a slim, androgynous woman. A woman, in Klingklang? Times had changed!

"Guten tag," I said, returning her smile.

"Hallo," she replied, addressing me in German. >>Are you new, or are you just visiting?<<

>>Erm, I think I'm just visiting.<<

>>You think?<< She laughed at this, sitting back on a chair to watch me struggle with the coffeemaker. >>You don't know? What do you do?<<

>>I'm a writer.<< I said, puzzling over the options for the coffeemaker. If they had been in German, that would have been fine, but they weren't. They were in icon form, and it was quite hard to tell which was which. I struggled to remember how he took his coffee - black I thought, but I seemed to remember him stirring in sugar. I wondered if the girl would know. >>Look, this is a very stupid question, but it saves me a trip back up those stairs. Do you know how Herr Hütter takes his coffee?<<

>>Herr Hütter<< she whistled, as if she were either impressed, or teasing me, or making fun of him, or possibly all three, but at least she walked over to the machine and pressed the appropriate buttons, slowly, to make sure I had observed the order. >>Likes precisely one cube of raw sugar in his espresso.<<

>>You've done this before.<<

>>It's a rite of passage. Don't screw it up, because nobody likes it when Der Chef gets cranky.<< She widened her eyes and made a face, so that again, I couldn't tell if she was joking.

>>Would you maybe know where I can find a humus and avocado sandwich?<<

She pointed to a segmented surface that turned out to be the door of the fridge. >>Top shelf on the left. It's a sacking offence in this place to eat Der Chef's avocado sandwich. Oh, and don't serve it to him in the packet. He doesn't like that. He always has to have one of the hexagonal black plates - cupboard on the bottom right - and don't put the sandwiches on top of one another, he doesn't like them touching. Put them side by side, facing each other.<<

>>Do I have to line them up exactly with one of the axes of the plate?<< I quipped.

>>You get the idea. You're going to be just fine, working here.<<

>>No, no, I'm not... I don't work here. I'm not... I'm just a writer. I write about Kraftwerk. I'm not, like... looking for a job or anything.<<

Leaning back against the table, she fixed me with a long, even stare. >>You know, Ralf tends to approach new hires so subtly that half the time the candidates don't even know they're being auditioned or interviewed until they get a letter with a job offer from his solicitor. He totally has a new project he wants to work on. We had another writer - a well-known classical music critic and scholar from Munich - in here last week. That one failed the coffee test.<<

I looked down at the coffee I was still holding, not realising it had been a test. But what kind of a test? >>What does he want a writer for? I thought Kraftwerk were supposed to be famously reclusive and publicity-shy.<<

The girl shrugged. >>I don't know. Hütter gets these ideas sometimes, but he won't tell us what they're for. He's like that. He wants the thing, he's obsessive about getting it, but he won't actually tell you what it's for until he's worked out whether it works or not. He's very cautious, it's like he's protecting himself from failure. But... He... look, don't let me put you off. It's actually a quite decent place to work. Sure, Ralf is a bit weird, and kinda picky about odd things, but once you get used to his quirks, he's a pretty good boss. It's a nice organisation to work for. Pay's shit, but there are good benefits and it's actually really flexible. He may talk that line to the press - 168 hour work week - but he doesn't actually care how much of that you spend on the premises, so long as work gets done. It's a pretty cushy gig.<<

>>So you work here?<< I stuttered, feeling suddenly perplexed, unsettled, but also a little bit intrigued. >>What do you do?<<

>>What don't I do?<< she laughed, with a little shrug. >>I fix shit. I fix all the little dumb shit that the men are too important, or too clueless to fix.<<

>>What kind of things?<< I was aware of Ralf's coffee cooling in my hand, but this woman, with her unruly pixie cut dyed a deep magenta, and her androgynous overalls (black, of course. No one in Klingklang wore anything but black) interested me.

>>All kinds of things. Officially, well, I was brought in when they moved shop. I used to be an apprentice to Peter, who did all the wiring, repair and general upkeep on the old 70s synths. It's a dying art to keep those old beasts alive, but people come from across Belgium, the Netherlands and even as far as France to have Peter do repair work. But he was a mate of Schneider's. So when Schneider and Der Chef...<< She made a gesture with her hands to indicate two fingers going in opposite directions. >>Well, Der Chef poached me. I thought it would be a temporary gig, but I'm still here, seven, eight years later, keeping the old synths in working order, fixing the databases that no one else understands, plugging the holes in the website, rewiring Hütter's favourite original 1920s Bauhaus lamp when he puts the wrong wattage bulb in it...<<

"Kate? Ah, here you are. I was wondering if you had got lost... I thought it surely didn't take this long to..." Abruptly Ralf stopped, when he saw my companion lounging at the table. "Fräulein Müller," he said, a little stiffly.

"Herr Hütter," she replied, in the same stiff, formal tone.

He gestured towards his head. "You are quite pink this week, Fräulein Müller. This is very feminine for you. I think I like it."

"It's not really pink, it's more magenta," I observed, wondering if I was overstepping my bounds, but her eyeroll had caught even my attention, and I felt annoyed on her behalf.

"Thank you!" she said, throwing a glance at me with the tone of a sulking teenager, though I would have guessed she was mid-30s at a pinch.

"Ms Müller has been filling me in on how much she enjoys working at Klingklang," I said diplomatically, wondering if I dared dig for this mysterious project of Ralf's that she had mentioned.

"Oh, I'm sure she has," said Ralf, rolling his eyes right back at her in an exaggerated gesture, and I realised that their relationship was actually completely friendly, albeit with a slightly familial tone of Ralf as Paterfamilias and Müller as unruly daughter. "Fräulein Müller followed us over from Mintropstrasse like a little monkey we cannot get rid of, but we have all become too fond of her to shoo her off back home."

"Yes, let us see if you still feel that way the next time you accidentally move your document so far off the computer screen you can't get the mouse's cursor on it."

Ralf chuckled, a surprising sound to come from his long face. "This is probably true. We cannot get on without her." He gestured with his head for me to follow him back up the stairs. "Though I would not believe a word Fräulein Müller tells you, if I were you." As I turned to wave goodbye, before following him back up the stairs, I caught her wink at me.

I filled up the entire rest of my sketchbook with notes, over the course of the rest of the afternoon, and had to ask to borrow more paper, which Ralf happily supplied. In the dim office, it was hard to tell what the time was, but I could see the light outside, towards the kitchen, slowly starting to fade. Ralf wanted to know if I fancied ordering takeaway, suggesting that there was a fairly decent Japanese restaurant on the other side of the office park. I asked for vegetarian noodles of some kind, and produced a twenty euro note, but he waved it away. We ate in the kitchen. The odd couple of technicians I had met earlier wandered in and exchanged polite greetings and technical observations with Ralf as they heated their dinners in the microwave, but Müller seemed to have gone.

We worked for several more hours - without my phone, I simply lost track of time. But it wasn't until Ralf yawned and stretched, muttering something about home-time, that I caught sight of his watch. 

"Oh my god, what time is it?"

He brought his hand round to his face. "It's OK, it's only just gone midnight."

"What time does the last tram go?" I stuttered, wondering how on earth I'd get back from Meerbusch, if there was anything like the German equivalent of a Night Bus.

At that he looked slightly crestfallen. "Ah. Yes, this is a problem." He looked concerned for a moment, but then he brightened. "Never mind, I will drive you home."

"I don't want to trouble you... it's miles out of your way..."

He waved away my concerns. "It's my fault, I should have thought. Let me just phone my wife and let her know I will be delayed."

As I packed the diaries back into the box, wondering if I would ever have the chance to examine them again, he went to his desk and picked up the phone. I gathered my notes and stuffed them into the bag, leaving the German dictionary on top of the sofa. From across the room, I could hear only one side of Ralf's conversation with his wife, droning on in soft German behind me. >>Yes... yes... No, I haven't, not just yet. ... Well, we shall see. ... Yes, I think so, but I want to be sure. ... OK ... Oh, no, what? ... What, tomorrow? ... but we have reservations at the Tonhalle! ... Can't it be moved? ... I see. ... I suppose I could ask her, I've no idea if she even likes Mendelssohn. ... Alright. I won't be too late, another hour or so. Love you. Bye.<<

I stood up, wrapped my leather jacket back around my shoulders, then pulled my bag, newly heavy with the extra notepads, around my neck. "Ready when you are," I said as he searched on the desk for his keys.

"So, do you like Mendelssohn?" he asked, as I realised with a start that I had been the subject of the conversation with his wife.

"I don't actually know. I've not heard much."

"Oh." He seemed flummoxed by this reaction, merely staring at me, so I tried to push it further.

"Why?"

"Well, we have tickets for the Tonhalle tomorrow, playing his Third - the Scottish Symphony - and a few other works. My wife has been conscripted into an emergency meeting of her benevolent ladies' association ... concerned with the refugees. They are having an emergency relief meeting, I don't know the details. But this means she cannot accompany me to the Tonhalle. Anyway, it's very beautiful, the building. One of Düsseldorf's finest attractions, the building, especially if you like the Jugendstil." He paused to let us out of the building, then locked up carefully behind us.

As we got outside and reached his car, I realised this was his subtle attempt at an invitation. "Wait, are you asking me to go with you?"

"Well, this is what my wife suggested, so we don't waste the ticket." He unlocked the car and let us both in.

"You don't want to take your daughter or anything?"

He made a slightly pained face as we settled into our seats. "My daughter is not one for classical music, I'm afraid. She likes this adolescent music, this loud, shouty music. With the funny haircuts. I do not understand, but I am her father. I am not meant to understand. Will you accompany me?"

My head spun at the thought of spending a third day with Herr Hütter. "Well... uh... let me check my... I don't think I have other plans? By which I mean... yes, of course!" I was quite tired from the long day, and I was having a hard time getting my head around the invitation, so I dug for my phone, and checked my calendar. Of course I didn't have plans, but Ralf raised an eyebrow at me as he pulled on his leather driving gloves. "What?" I said defensively.

"I knew that you could not survive a whole evening, separated from your little electronic brain, there."

"I'm just putting in a reminder so I don't forget. What time shall we meet?"

He nodded. "I will meet you at seven, there is a little waiting area by the ticket counter. But I warn you, you will need to be parted from your Handy for the length of the concert."

I bristled slightly, pulling together the courage to disagree with this man I was still slightly in awe of. "Why are you so against mobile phones? They are only tools, after all. Would you be as offended, had I pulled out a paper diary or organiser to write down the date?"

Ralf lowered his chin as he stared out at the road ahead. He had a habit of pursing his lips as if he were sucking his teeth, as he thought through something carefully. "No one ever used a paper diary as a tool to ignore or isolate themselves from the people around them. This is what I object to, not the technology itself. People use them as an excuse to be rude."

"Sometimes, when you pass through the world looking like a woman, they are very useful for purposely being able to shield oneself from untoward or unwanted attention. They can be used, not be not rude, but as a shield from the rudeness of those around you. You have no idea how many times I, or my friends, have used a mobile, or headphones, as protection from creepy or entitled men." It was very hard to keep the edge of a defensive tone from my voice.

"Perhaps," he conceded with a little nod of the head. "But is the case in my own house, at my own dinner table? My own daughter, she will happily sit there, fiddling with her phone, playing on the Facebook, playing on this social media, and paying not one word of attention to her Mama or myself. Do you not find this rude?"

I paused, chewing on my own lips. I had never met this daughter, but felt a strange need to defend her, as much as I felt the need to defend my own social media habit. "I was a teenager in the era before smartphones; before mobile phones of any kind. And I can distinctly recall my father sitting down at the dinner table, with a newspaper before him on the table, reading that rather than paying attention to any of his family. And not one word, not one judgement was passed on that."

A slightly guilty look passed across Ralf's face, as if this were behaviour he had himself engaged in. "I see your point. But that feels different to me. To read a newspaper, this is to keep in touch with current events. It is good to be informed. And one can share this information with others. I can remember as a child myself, that it was very important to discuss the events in the newspaper - even if my own father was generally very wrong about them. The dissent was character-building. But these young people, bent over their Handys, they do not share. They do not engage. They are just locked away, engaging only with the little silver box, and not discussing - even disagreeing if they must - with their families."

"Ralf, I'm going to say this again. The little silver box has _people_ in it. How do you know she's not having discussions and political arguments with people _in the silver box_?"

"It is not the same."

"Is a telephone conversation any less real than a conversation in person? I don't see conversations on the internet as any different from a telephone conversation."

"One generally does not have telephone conversations at the breakfast table, while one's family is eating!" protested Ralf, tapping the steering wheel with gloved hands to denote his points.

"Do you ever have the television on?" I probed.

"Sometimes, especially now it is winter. I like to watch the news, and my wife likes to see the weather report before any of us leaves the house. This is hardly the same thing as my daughter fiddling with her phone, all through breakfast."

"How do you know that she is not checking the weather, or reading the news, or comparing homework with her schoolfriends? I am sorry if you feel like your daughter is spending too much time engaging with people who aren't you, but..."

"So you think it's fine to fiddle with your phone all through a meal with someone? I must say, you did not behave this way when I took you to lunch yesterday, or I would not have continued our association," Ralf said, rather testily.

"OK, myself, sure, I'm old enough to be of the opinion that if you're actually at a meal with someone, it's rude to spend the whole time checking your phone, and you should be present with the person you are socialising with," I conceded. "But casual family meals? If you are OK with having the television on, or reading a newspaper during a family meal, I don't see why using the internet to keep in touch with friends is so different. Honestly, Ralf, I thought you were someone who understood the many uses of technology to unite people."

"I am interesting in the technology of communication. But this technology is not communicating. This is dividing; this is isolating."

"This technology enables your daughter to be both at your breakfast table with her family, and also communicate with her friends at the same time. I utterly fail to see how this is isolating in any sense. This seems to me, the absolute opposite of isolation. Imagine if you had been able to pick up a silver box and talk to Florian Schneider, while your own father was holding forth on politics at your childhood breakfast table."

I had intended to say this in a playful, teasing tone of voice, but as soon as it escaped my lips, I realised I might have gone too far. Ralf fell silent, with an odd, unreadable look across his darkened face. I still never knew quite how references to Florian would be taken; with pleasant nostalgia or hurt silence.

We drove on in silence, until eventually Ralf reached down, turned on the radio, and flipped through the stations on the dial. Finally, he lighted on some lugubrious symphony, which seemed to jolt him back to life. "Ah, yes. This is Mendelssohn - the Italian, not the symphony we will hear tomorrow - but it gives you some idea of what to expect."

Glad that he was still speaking to me, I lay back in the seat and let the music wash over me. "Yes, this is beautiful. Thank you for the offer of the ticket. I look forward to it."

He shifted in the driver's seat, and threw me a little smile, as if to let me know that what ever disagreement we had just had, it was forgiven. "I am glad that we will be able to spend some more time together before you leave for home."

I swallowed nervously. "Are you not sick of me yet?"

"Quite to the contrary. I find we work well together, don't you?"

"I..." I wondered in what on earth sense, he meant by 'working together'. "But we haven't worked on anything at all. We've just sat silently while I translated and you... worked on your... stuff."

"Precisely!" He beamed, and the music washed over the car again.

Finally, we crossed the Rheinkniebrücke, and he drove me as far as he could up the Berger Allee as the pedestrianised zone would allow. "It's been so many years since I was here," he observed with a wistful tone, craning his head to look at the elegant row of Art Nouveau apartment buildings that were my destination. "I had almost forgotten. We had a lot of fun, in those days."

"Would you like to come up?" I offered, grateful for a chance to return at least one of his favours.

His eyes flashed, and he smiled broadly, showing all of his teeth at the idea. "I would." Leaning forwards, he peered into the gloom. "But I must be getting home. My family await me..." He smiled at me, and I felt suddenly very fond of him, this strange man whose thoughts I had been reading all afternoon.


	5. Subtext

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Journalist meets Ralf for a concert at the Tonhalle, but as he agrees to come home with her for an intimate drink, she realises that there is more to their meeting than he is letting on.

Saturday was a strange, surreal day. Since it was my last day in town, I felt the need to run around and see all the things I had neglected, and do all the things I had left undone in favour of visiting Klingklang. I walked through a couple of the wonderful art museums, trying to concentrate on the art, but all I could do was mentally replay the previous days' conversations over and over in my head. For the entire day, I felt the evening's concert hanging over me in a way that made it almost impossible to concentrate on anything else. Eventually, I gave up on art, and found myself sitting on the steps of the Rhine, staring out across the water, trying to get my head around my own good fortune.

As the sun set, I went home to change. I dressed in the most formal clothes I had, good black trousers in a sort of silky material, and a button-down shirt. In the bistro downstairs, I had an early supper, then I walked slowly up the Rhine, trying to memorise the city's beautiful skyline. Still, despite dawdling, I was about twenty minutes early - on top of the fact that the performance did not start until 7.30. 

Staking a place near the ticket counter, but with a good view of the doors, I set about checking my various social media accounts, thanks to the Tonhalle's particularly fast free Wifi. I uploaded a few holiday snaps to Tumblr, and a few German jokes to Twitter, but I kept my remarks brief and cryptic. I don't know what held my tongue, as my personal Kraftwerk coup seemed like exactly the sort of thing my friends would be utterly dying to hear about. But, perhaps thinking of Ralf's suspicion of social media and the 'little silver box', I stayed silent. It wasn't like I was trying to be secretive. It was more the idea that I barely believed my luck myself. To admit it publicly would be to open it to scrutiny, and, completely illogically, I was somehow terrified that the whole thing might evaporate like a fairy castle if I told anyone else of what I was doing.

But after about ten minutes, Ralf arrived, though as he looked around, he seemed surprised to see me. Still smarting from his comments about being addicted to my electronic brain, I slid the iPhone into my bag before he could comment on it, and waved to beckon him over. He greeted me warmly, shook my hand, then sat opposite. "Do you know, I am almost obsessively punctual," he said with a bemused smile. "And yet, still, every time we meet, you somehow manage to be here before me. It is _most_ un-English of you."

"It's funny," I told him. "I dislike being late so much that I am always early, so that I might never keep anyone else waiting. Which means that I invariably end up doing more and more of the waiting."

"I am not complaining. It is a good quality. I like being punctual. It was Florian... now Flori was incapable of not being ten, twenty, even thirty minutes late. He had no sense of time at all. He would have driven you crazy."

I smiled back at him, puzzled by this statement. He brought up his former partner so rarely that it seemed strange, but I decided to follow his lead. "How did you cope with it for forty years, then?"

A wistful expression crossed Ralf's face. "After several years, well, one learns... techniques for getting along. It used to infuriate me, yes, in the early days. But I learned ways to manage him. For example, I would arrange to meet him at the studio, so I could spend my time waiting for him doing useful things, tuning the oscillator banks, preparing the tape machine. And if we had to do anything important, I would go and meet him at his apartment, and I would rouse him out of bed, if I had to. He was fantastically lazy, our Flori, that was one thing you did not quite catch about him."

For a moment, I faltered, wondering if he actually meant the way I had described Florian on TBCBYL, or if he had caught on to some of my other... online presence. Internally, I panicked for a moment, but then I got hold of myself. Would he really be sitting here, calmly meeting me for a concert if he had actually read any of my fan fiction? No, of course he would not. I made a non-committal noise, and desperately wished I had had a drink with dinner. "Are you OK, talking about Florian? I feel like I might have upset you, bringing him up last night."

"Oh, no. It surprises me, that is all. It feels good to talk about the past, sometimes. Usually, one is so concerned with moving, moving always forward. But sometimes, as one gets older, I am surprised to find that I enjoy a pause for reflection. You are probably too young to understand..."

"Not really, no. I have never had the mania for forward motion that you do. Sometimes, when climbing a mountain, the best thing one can do is look back, to appreciate how far you have come, pausing for a moment before resuming the climb, knowing how far one has already climbed, and survived."

Ralf grinned and tapped his lips thoughtfully. "I like this metaphor. It is a good one. Would you like a drink before the doors open? There is quite a pleasant bar through there..."

"I might have a glass of sekt if there's one going. And you, I expect, will have a coffee, with some sparkling water on the side?" I teased.

Ralf puffed himself up a bit, looking really rather pleased. "You know me too well already."

Our drink was indeed, pleasant, and then we went into the theatre itself, which was breathtaking, and Ralf took great pride in pointing out various structural and architectural features, as I stood with my head back and my mouth open. He showed our tickets to the usher, and we found our seats, which were of course absolutely perfectly centred for the very best sound, though we chatted as the hall filled up. Conversation was light, but friendly. After three days around him, and surviving a quite high-spirited disagreement with him, without hard feelings, I had actually got to the point where I felt able to relax and even tease him a little, the way I would with a real friend. Although I was, obviously, still very impressed with him, and never wanted to lose my slight starry-eyed awe at his physical presence and his quick wit, I was starting to lose my intimidation a little bit, so that I could see him as a human being, albeit a very attractive and clever one. And yet this produced a new problem, as I felt the Sekt bubbles bit my bloodstream, and I started wondering what I would have to do to stop a pop-star crush turning into an actual _real_ crush.

But never mind, I reminded myself, as he started recounting a story about cycling through a particularly fiendish mountain pass in the Pyrenees. You are leaving Düsseldorf tomorrow, and you need never worry about running into him again. You will exchange a few more emails, and he will return to just being a fantasy figure. So I felt perfectly alright in flattering him a little bit, and puffing him up, just for the sheer joy of seeing that bashful smile and slight blush of mixed pleasure and humbleness. He might have been older, but that bashful smile remained unchanged, and I took great pride in provoking it.

I asked him to tell me about the symphony we were about to hear, and he looked concerned, even solicitous. "There is a small description in the programme. Can you read it, or is the German too technical? Would you like me to translate?"

"I can read it just fine. But what I want to know is, what is your opinion of it? Why do you like it, what do you hear in it?"

Ralf smiled and bent forward. "Oh, no no. It is you who is the music writer. I am just the musikant. I produce compositions. It is your job, not mine, to produce opinions."

"That's why I'm asking you. Because you are a composer." I nudged his elbow gently, my courage fortified by the wine, and I realised with a shock that it was the first time I had consciously touched him. I had to watch that. But he did not recoil, he moved in slightly closer, as if drawn by the touch.

"Well," he said, and started to explain, in rather technical terms, the harmonic structure, and the novelty of the arrangement, which wasn't exactly what I had had in mind, but was amusing nonetheless, until the lights dimmed and the audience fell silent.

I had the feeling that Ralf would not be much of a talker during a performance, but he actually almost froze, staring rapt up at the stage, his head alert, his entire body seeming to strain forward to catch every note of the music. The music washed over me like a flood, stirring my emotions, but I found myself distracted, and I kept looking over to Ralf, to mark his reactions. At first, he remained totally silent and utterly still, but slowly, as the tempo picked up, I noticed first his head moving back and forth, and then his fingers slightly twitching. At first, I thought he might have been playing along on the piano, but then it hit me. No, he was air conducting.

It was just so unexpectedly adorable that I had to suppress a giggle. I dragged my eyes off him and back to the stage, trying to concentrate on the music. The piece ended, and then there was the slight shuffle of musicians shifting around, some of them leaving the stage. It couldn't be over so soon, could it? Oh no. I checked the programme,and realised that there were three shorter pieces before the intermission, and then the symphony we had come to hear afterwards.

At intermission, I decided that it was time to repay some of the generosity that he had been showering on me for the past three days. I touched his arm gently, then offered "I need the Ladies' room, then I'm going to the bar to get a drink. Would you like another?"

He absolutely beamed to be asked. "That is very kind of you... but perhaps a decaf." But just as I nodded and turned to go, he pulled out his wallet and produced a fifty euro note. "Here... you will need this."

"Don't be absurd, Ralf. I can stand you a round of drinks."

But he would not back down. "No. I absolutely insist. You are my guest. Please take it. Buy whatever refreshments you would like. And perhaps one of those little chocolate ice creams for me?" He seemed about to stuff the note into my pocket, so I was forced to take it. But when I returned, fifteen minutes later, refreshed and with our drinks, I made a point of handing him back all of his change, coins and all. (Well, I had left a small tip, but the money was more than sufficient.) He smiled and handed me back my program, which he had lifted off my seat so I could sit down, then quickly scoffed his tiny tub of ice cream.

Soon the lights dimmed, and the musicians came back onstage. In the half-dark, I could see Ralf's entire carriage become very erect as the conductor re-appeared and took a bow, but I sank back into the seat to await the music. I watched the musicians, the intensity of the first violinist, the solemn dedication of the double bass players, but mostly I preferred to watch Ralf. We did not speak during the performance, but a couple of times he turned to me, tapped me gently on the arm and pointed at the string section, or the woodwinds, to highlight some point that he had made earlier in conversation. And when the music finally finished, we clapped and rose along with the crowd, but then sat down again, and stayed in our seats long after the hall had started to empty out.

"So what did you think?" he asked solicitously.

"I'm still digesting it. I think we're spoiled, by modern recorded music, to be able to go back and listen again and again at our leisure, to re-hear a piece until it becomes familiar. Hearing something original in its entirety like this, it takes a certain concentration, and then a certain pause to stop, and think over what one has heard."

"Yes, I am glad you have noticed this. We called it tape-recorder consciousness, the awareness of something as a repeatable event which can be recalled over and over, versus the idea of single, irreproducible moments. This, you see, is why I would not allow you to tape our conversations. It forces one to actually pay attention, stay in the moment, think through afterwards, all of the topics that have been discussed."

"But in an actual interview, you could not get away with that. Human memory is fallible. Sometimes one needs to the tapes, or the transcribed word, to make sure one has not misremembered or misinterpreted."

"Hmm, this is true," he conceded, but then he turned his head to see the ushers slowly making their way down the aisles. "I fear they are about to eject us. May I drive you back to your accommodations?"

"Don't you have to get back to your daughter's pony club, or whatever?" I said, a little too flippantly for comfort.

But luckily he did not seem to notice the flirtation, and took the question at face value. "My daughter is on a sleepover with her best friend tonight. It is parents' night off - which is, I think why the Benevolent Ladies of Krefeld swooped down on my wife. I can drive you to your home."

He grew pensive as we skirted the Altstadt, and he wove the small town car back and forth along narrow streets until we reached Bäckerstrasse. "It is a number of years since I have come here," he observed, peering up into the trees lining the street, half lit by streetlights. "And now I find myself here three times in one weekend."

"Would you like to come up?" I asked, suddenly feeling bold. "Since we have been talking in the spirit of nostalgia."

"Oh, I couldn't," said Ralf quickly, but I noticed that he pulled his car into an available spot to park. "Would your landlord mind terribly?"

"I don't think he would mind at all. He would probably be glad of the company. He was a habitué of the Bagel and the Kunstakademie in the 70s, you might find you share the same reminiscing."

"Ach I don't know. Isn't your train very early tomorrow?" He still didn't turn the key in the ignition, to restart the car, and he actually genuinely looked torn, like this was something he couldn't decide if he wanted to do or not.

"It leaves the Hauptbahnhof at 10.30. You can stay for one coffee."

That seemed to decide the matter, as Ralf nodded quickly and gathered his messenger bag, then climbed out of the car. "It's been such a long time. I see it's all been tarted up. This is nice, it was all peeling paint and damaged plaster when I lived here."

I turned to look at him. "I forgot that you also lived here for a while."

"Yes, while I was at architecture school, I kept a room here. I would take the train down from Aachen at the weekends, to rehearse with the band." He seemed almost lost in memory as he wandered off, down the street towards number nine. "And, of course, I came here often while Emil was living here."

"I hear there were wild parties," I teased, as I called him back to my own front door at the top of the street. "Or should I be more diplomatic and not mention these stories..."

"Ach, that nonsense of that man..." For a moment, he looked quite angry, but it passed just as quickly. "Oh, what does it matter. It is all a very long time ago now."

We climbed the stairs in silence, all six flights, though Ralf was in good shape not to need to rest halfway up. He laughed when he saw the full-sized plexiglass statue of a golfing man outside my door. "Yes, this is us," I said.

"Is this your host?" Ralf laughed, gesturing towards the life-sized mannequin. "Does he like a bit of golf, then?"

"You'll see," I laughed. "But take off your shoes."

Ralf frowned, but did as he was asked. Without the heels, I could see that he was noticeably shorter, and I observed him trying to pull himself up to his full height, straightening his usually slouched back to try to gain the half inch or so in height he had over me. I observed that the light was not on - Karlheinz was either asleep or not in - so I crept in silently. But when I switched on the hall light, I saw his house slippers lying on the mat, and realised we were alone.

Entering as if he were in a dream, Ralf walked through and pottered about, staring as if lost deep in memory. Padding forward into the front room, he looked about, blinked, and furrowed his brow. "It is not exactly the same, but it very like. Our hall was bigger, and our front room was wider. And then Emil slept through there..." He gestured towards the double doors to the sitting room.

"Which was your room?" I asked, curious.

"Oh, I slept at the back. There was constant traffic up and down the waterfront during the daytime before they built the tunnel, but I was completely nocturnal back when we were students, so it didn't bother me too much."

"Behind the kitchen? That's my room."

I led him through, and he kept exclaiming aloud, though whether over his memories, or over the fanciful displays of golf balls and newspaper clippings and collections of every imaginable sort with which Karlheinz had decorated the flat, I could not quite tell. Ralf stopped to gasp loudly with wonder at a display of a dozen upended old-fashioned manual typewriters covering one wall in the kitchen. "These are wonderful. I would like to meet him, this man, your landlord. I did not know he was an artist."

"Oh he's a real character. Coffee? Tea? Wine?" I offered, digging through the cupboard looking for a coffeemaker. Although there wasn't one, I did manage to find a jar of Nescafe. "I'm afraid Karlheinz and I are both tea drinkers so you might have to make do with instant."

"So you have brought me here under false pretences," Ralf sighed. "I will take instant, if that is all that is available."

"I could say the same thing about you," I quipped back. The sekt had hit me a little harder than I had been expecting, if I could raise that sort of question. I found myself pouring another glass as I put the kettle on to make coffee.

"I don't know what you mean. I did nothing of the sort, this evening. It is as I said; my wife was unable to attend the concert," Ralf countered slightly defensively.

"Why did you ask me to come to Düsseldorf?" I asked, lowering my voice slightly.

He paused, pursing his lips as if gathering his thoughts. "Because you wanted to interview me. And because I wanted to show you Klingklang. And because I thought it would be... well, fun, for you."

I continued to just stare at him. "I didn't ask you for an interview. You extended an invitation to me, to come and greet you, if I was in the neighbourhood again."

"So I did." Ralf stuck his hands into the back pockets of his trousers and moved his shoulders awkwardly as I poured the boiling water onto the instant coffee and searched for some sugar.

"Come on, Ralf," I said, opening the door into my bedroom. Ralf didn't follow me, but I walked through, opened the door onto the balcony, and moved two deck chairs out there before reappearing at the kitchen door, to gesture him to come outside. It wasn't at all cold, despite the season. The night air was quite pleasant after the unexpected warmth of the day, and I liked the protected space of the balcony, safe behind the wall of greenery. "Give me some credit. I used to be a journalist. You've read my work. You know I spend my whole life looking for the subtext. What is the subtext here?"

He looked torn as he walked out onto the balcony and sat down, somewhat stiffly, keeping his legs very close together, balancing the coffee cup on his knee as he looked out across the rooftops to the Mannesmann Hochhaus. "Ah," he said delicately. "I see how this must look to you, now. I am an old man, and I have forgotten about these things. I must assure you, I was not, ahm, how do you say, _orchestrating_ you to have an affair with me, if this is what you are thinking." And with this he raised his cup and sipped his coffee as if embarrassed by having to explain his innocence.

I couldn't help myself; I burst out laughing. "I didn't think for a moment that you were," I managed to say, once I had controlled my mirth. "Alright I suppose... now I think about it. Showing me your diaries... taking me to the concert without your wife... coming up for coffee... I can see how you might think I could have got that impression. But that is not at all the impression I took away. Honestly."

"Then we are agreed," said Ralf firmly, tapping his spare knee with the palm of his hand. "There is not the hint of a flirtation between us. There is no question that this could be misconstrued as a prelude to an affair. There is no, as you say, _subtext_."

The thought had not crossed my mind until the moment that he said it, but at that moment, watching him studiously avoid looking at me, I suddenly had my doubts. I had only invited him up for coffee to show him the flat, to see if the setting provoked any more nostalgia or memories. But I abruptly realised how it might have looked to him, and wondered if he had had this possibility in his mind when he had followed me up. Was that the reason for all the dithering and prevarication? Did he honestly think I was inviting him up for an assignation, not a chat? Was that why he had _come_? But the very idea was absurd. An international pop star, and a fat, middle aged computer programmer from South London? It wasn't the sort of thing that happened, even in the most sordid and unbelievable of my fan fictions. 

"None at all, on that level," I said firmly, then started to chuckle again. "I'm glad we've got that sorted out." Some imp took hold of my tongue, and deliberately slipped in the diminutive of his name, almost as if I were testing him. "But I feel you are being evasive and changing the subject, _Ralfi_. If not for an intrigue, why did you invite me to Düsseldorf?"


	6. Ghostwriter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf finally reveals to the Writer, why he invited her to Düsseldorf, and why he has been courting her so carefully: it's not her body he's after, but her mind, and her writing skills.

Ralf's chin shot up, and he smiled at the sudden intimacy of the diminutive, as if he liked it. "Do you have a nickname? I can't imagine anyone even daring to call you Katie."

Alright, I owed him that one. "Well, no. I don't have a nickname. But my Mum sometimes calls me Katrina."

"Katrin," he mused, rolling the name on his tongue. "This is German, I like it. It is one of my favourite names..."

"Changing the subject again," I warned him, tapping him lightly on the arm as I glared over the top of my glasses at him with a severe expression. I hoped this looked fierce, but he smirked and leaned in towards me. Despite his promise of a few moments earlier, his whole attitude had a hint of flirtation.

"Is this an interrogation?"

"Do you want it to be?" I could not believe my boldness as I looked him straight in the eye.

At this, he finally laughed and flushed, his eyelashes fluttering as he glanced demurely down. "That is what I am trying to make up my mind about." But then he looked over longingly at my glass of wine. "May I have a glass?"

I looked up, surprised. He did not strike me as a drinker. "Of course..." I started to get up, but he gestured with his hand for me to sit.

"I can fetch it." And as he stood, I saw that the coffee was untouched, and started to giggle.

"Is my instant coffee that bad?"

"Yes," he said with a wry tilt to his eyebrows. "I will refrain from pouring it into the plants, as I fear it might kill them stone dead." When he returned, he had about half a glass of white wine. "Alright, I might as well tell you, as the decision is practically made, though you spoil my surprise. I have only to speak to my solicitors, to work out the details with them."

"I think," I said, taking another fortifying sip of wine. "That if you are making plans involving me, you had better work out the whole concept with me, first."

Ralf sipped at his drink and sighed deeply. "Alright. I will explain from the beginning. I had a definite aim in mind, inviting you to meet. You see. Since the publication and success of my second former bandmate's autobiography, the pressure - and the offers - for me to produce one, have considerably intensified. My solicitor has told me that the sums being discussed, especially by the Americans, are too considerable to ignore for much longer." 

He took a deep breath and paused, as I stared at him, wondering where on earth I was supposed to come into this. 

"Also, I am growing old, Katrin. I have just turned 70. Mortality starts to press so heavy on one, at this age. I am healthy, I have another good 10, 15 years if I am lucky. But time is growing shorter, and there are sides to the story that, if I do not tell them, will never be told. I realised that I do not want the story of my life that my daughter reads when she grows up, and my daughter's children read when I am gone, to be stories written by other people, with agendas of their own. I want them to know the truth, of who I am."

I stared at him as he lapsed into silence, clearly consumed in memories. "I'm sorry to keep asking this, but why are you telling me this?"

He nodded sharply as if resurfacing from a deep sleep. "I need, you see, what you English call a ghostwriter. Especially if I accept the American offers, which are the best, in terms of scale - and money. We were always better understood abroad. But they will want the manuscript in English."

I shook my head. "Your English is perfect, Ralf. And why on earth would you need a ghostwriter? Your lyrics are brilliant. And it was you that translated them all into English, yes?"

He pulled a wry face, staring down at his feet, wiggling his toes in their black socks. "Emil was always my ghostwriter. We wrote the lyrics together, yes, but he was the one that made them come alive. I was good at coming up with the slogans, yes. And I was the one who made the concepts, who said... we are going to write a song about Europe, or we are going to write a song about those schickimickis who hang about in the Bagel. But Emil was the one who would make it come alive, turn it into a little story. He had that gift, not I."

I stared at Ralf, surprised by this admission. "So why not have Emil ghostwrite your story for you?"

Shaking his head, he sipped at his wine. He took such small sips that his half glass was still going, though I had finished my own. "He is, ironically, I think, too close to the story. I can't explain, but I know that Emil would not do it. Or if he did, it would be the end of our friendship."

"So who are you thinking of? I don't know many writers any more, though I used to know some music journalists in London..."

Ralf smiled that cute, little-boy smile. "Oh, there is no need for this, I believe I have found someone."

"Oh. Who?" I asked blithely.

Ralf's smile widened, turned into that typical breathy little laugh as he gestured with his hands towards me. He clearly found this a terrific joke. "Why, she is sitting right here."

"Me?" I asked, taken utterly by surprise. "You cannot be serious. I can't... I can't write a book about you."

"You already have," pointed out Ralf.

"What, This Band Could Be Your Life? That's hardly a scholarly tome... and it's nowhere near the kind of length I think you want... I can't write you a whole... biography."

Ralf leaned forward and tapped me gently on the arm. "I know you could. You have already proved yourself capable of writing a 350,000 word, 66 chapter _fiction_ , about Kraftwerk. I ask you now, to write the same thing, as truth."

Suddenly the knowledge of what he was saying permeated my alcohol-softened brain like a burning hot plume of industrial grade embarrassment. "Oh my god," I said dumbly. "You did not read that. Please tell me you did not read Vom Himmel Hoch." I wanted to die, I wanted to crawl off backwards into my room to just lie down on the bed and die of shame.

"Don't worry, I read only 2 or 3 chapters of that one. It became very obvious that it was not about us, it was about Jan, and Jan was actually you. I thought, well, I don't want to let this fictional character of you as a girl cloud my judgement. I wanted to meet, and speak to you, first."

I just stared at him in horror, feeling my face flushing, unable to form speech. This was something like my worst nightmare, suddenly given shape. My idol, telling me he had read the ridiculous fan fiction I had written about him. "To be fair, I was not entirely very nice about you in that story."

"No, you wrote me as a little prig. But, to be fair, I was a little prig in those days. An unfortunate caricature, but not inaccurate." As I gaped at him, he sipped his drink. "Besides," he added, with a mischievous smile. "It was very obvious that you didn't fancy me, you fancied Florian. A great deal." I just sort of whimpered as I screwed up my face and wanted to push my knuckles through my eyes into my brain and end it all. "Don't worry. It's fine, quite a few women did, in those days. He was a very charismatic young man. You would have liked him, had you met him then. And I think he would have gone to bed with you, to be honest. He likes clever girls; he would have had an eye for you."

"Stop it," I shrieked, gulping down the rest of my wine, like that was going to make things better. "I can't believe you're telling me this."

"Well, I can't believe you took a tram out to Krefeld to put a drawing through my letterbox, saying that my music changed your life. But here we are." He smiled, as if to show there were no hard feelings.

"Is that why you asked me to come to Düsseldorf, to make me actually die of shame?"

"I asked you to come here to see if you felt right to be the person to ghostwrite my autobiography," he shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "And, well, it felt right, almost from the start. I felt very natural with you, very quickly. To be honest, I think it makes a difference, that you are a woman." Abruptly, he paused, and looked up at me solicitously. "Is it alright, if I say this? In your writing, and in our conversations the other day, I know that you said you did not feel like a woman..."

I shrugged, raising my hands palm up. It was complicated, but I liked that he had asked. "Call it as you see it," I said non-committally.

"Well, it feels like speaking to a woman. Because I don't mind so much, being interviewed by you. As I said before, I like to be interviewed by women. The questions are so much more interesting. And, also." Here he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "It doesn't actually feel like an interrogation, speaking with you. It feels quite enjoyable, like I am trying to amuse a pretty girl."

That inspired a snort of laughter from me. "Don't fib, Ralfi. I am not exactly pretty."

"You are," he said, completely flat, as if he were making a comment about the weather, not offering me a compliment. "You may be - how do they say? - _dicke_... chubby, plump, yes, but you have a really wonderful, very attractive smile."

I stared at him, not sure whether I was supposed to feel flattered or offended. But it was pure Ralf, to just blurt something out without thinking through how it might be received. "Are you _negging_ me?"

He shook his head. "I do not understand. What is negging?"

"It's a bizarre form of flirting whereby men offer backhanded compliments that actually insult the woman, in order to make her insecure and crave his approval."

A startled expression came over his face as he realised what he had said. "No, you misunderstand. This is not flirting, it is a statement of fact. You are plump, yes. But to German men, plumpness is not such a problem as with the French, the English. German men like a bit of plumpness, a bit of meat on a woman." As he tilted his chin quite earnestly, he made a gesture with his hands towards his chest, as if in imitation of large breasts. Had anyone else made this gesture near me, I might have slapped them. But on Ralf, it seemed absurd, even comical. "This is Schöne. Nice. Attractive. I am not saying you are not pretty because you are plump. I am saying the reverse. You are plump, but you are pretty, because you have a really lovely smile. Now, to be fair, you are too _tall_ for me. But you are still an attractive woman. So it is an easier thing to talk to you, to tell you my secrets, than to talk to a man, for whom everything becomes a competition. I think we understand each other, yes?"

I simply stared at Ralf, thinking I would never understand heterosexual men at all. "You're not attracted to me, but you find me attractive enough to want to chat up," I said, perhaps a little too snidely.

But Ralf either didn't notice, or didn't understand the precise connotation of 'chat up'. "Precisely. But also, this thing... this Asperger's you have talked of. I think that you have really hit on something, with this. There is a sameness, an... unter... no, how do you say. An understanding. When I explain my thoughts, my feelings to you, you grasp them immediately. And if you do not, you _ask_ me, what I mean, rather than assume. You do not bother me with stupid, inconsequential questions, like some people do. You get to the point, and I like that."

There was silence between us for some time, as I tried to digest everything he was asking me, disambiguating the clumsy flirting from whatever it was that he was asking of offering. "Is this why you showed me your diaries?"

"Yes. Mostly, I wanted to know if you could read my handwriting. And also, to see how tenacious you were, how long you would stay with them. I was not expecting you to become so absorbed that you missed the last tram, but there we are."

"I can't... I can't just write you your autobiography," I protested, my mind so unable to even process the question that I immediately starting fumbling for reasons I couldn't possibly, rather than try to imagine reason I could.

But Ralf seemed mystified, sitting back in his chair stiffly. "I don't see why not."

I leaned in closer, lowering my voice, mentally rehearsing all the obvious grounds that this was a bad idea. "Ralf, you know that I'm a _fan_ , right?"

"Yes, I am counting on that."

"No, Ralf, I'm not just a fan, I'm a crazy _fangirl_ fan." He looked at me blankly and shrugged. "I'm the kind of crazy fangirl fan that turns up at your house, and pops things through your letterbox. You really want to let someone like me into your professional life?"

"Well," said Ralf, crossing his arms as if considering this. "It was a unique way of getting my attention. It certainly left an impression. And I must say it worked; you now have my attention. But what this shows to me is not _crazy_ , per se. Crazy would be if you had come in and rung the doorbell. What it shows to me is first, and foremost, you are prepared to do your research. My address is not easy to find. Second, what it shows is tenacity. That is a long way to come. You do not give up easily. Third, the fact that you did not ring my doorbell or even come in my garden, this shows me that you understand when to stop. The most important condition of them all."

I stared at him, unable to formulate even the faintest response, just shaking my head disbelievingly. "You can't be serious," I sputtered. To be honest, I was still stinging slightly over his plump comment. That just wasn't an OK thing to say to a woman. It just _wasn't_. Even if I didn't feel like a woman per se, I knew that calling a woman fat, accusing her of taking up too much space, it was not a nice thing to say.

"Honestly, I thought that you would jump at this chance. You write beautifully. And I am offering you the chance to write. To write something important, which I think you will do very well. And for money," he added, ever with that German eye on the bottom line. "You will be reimbursed."

My ego purred a little bit more than that, far more pleased with the compliment towards my writing than towards my fat but supposedly attractive body. "But I can't just... _write_ as you."

"You can, I've seen you do it. I've read it. I think it is what you say, that you feel like you are a little bit a man, as well. That you are able to get inside a man's brain, and write as if you are a man. I was intrigued by the way you were able to do that, even in fiction. That you were able to write from my point of view, and do it convincingly."

"I..." I felt my face flushing all over again. "What are you talking about? What have you read?"

"Oh, I read When Flori Met Ralfi. That was short... and also very sweet. Of course, there were many things that you got completely wrong. But you got just enough of it right. I think with my guidance, with my stories, you could get it _all_ right."

"Oh my god." I felt like I was going to wither away and die if he didn't stop with this endless parade of shame. I had never even... _dreamed_ , when I was writing the thing, that it would eventually work his way into his hands. But then I realised what he had said. I was such a sucker for praise. "But what did I get right?"

He smiled his little-boy smile, dipping his chin as he looked up at me. "The shyness, the awkwardness of that age. The.. _zurückhaltend_ young man that I was. Still am, in some ways. That double-consciousness of your writing, that you made him seem arrogant and odd to his peers, but on the inside you made him actually quite sweet and very likeable, even loveable." There was a poignancy to his expression that I had not seen before, and I realised for the first time, that as much as I had wanted all kinds of things from him, from my fandom, from meeting him, that he, too, seemed to want something from me. "You were able to see beneath Mr Kraftwerk and Mr Robot and the public image. You were able to see just Ralfi."

"I pulled a lot of that from my own youth," I whispered, sitting back in my chair, uncrossing and recrossing my legs nervously. I felt suddenly very exposed before him.

He opened his eyes wider, and I could feel the need coming off him, almost palpable. "You know that sensation, then. To have so much going on up here..." he gestured towards his own temples. "...that it is physically impossible to get it all out through your tongue. Big thoughts, that people dismiss, because they cannot understand, because of tradition, because of their conforming, conventionalist, con- con- constricted mindsets." I found it so adorable, the way he circled around English words, flipping through them until he came to the right one, that I smiled, and just kind of laughed a little, though I did not mean to make it appear that I was laughing at him.

But his face fell. "Never mind. I fear I have made a mistake. You don't want to write the book. I must find someone else. But please... I trust you to be discreet. You must not speak of this to anyone else, for obvious reasons..."

"Wait, wait," I interjected, not entirely realising just how much I had wanted this, until he tried to snatch it away. "I didn't say I wouldn't do it. It's just a shock. I mean..." My head spun wildly. Ghostwrite a book for Ralf Hütter? Never in a million years would I have conceived that this was a thing I could do. "The logistics, for a start. How would I do this? If we did this... If this was a thing, that we decided to do."

His face started to brighten again as he realised he might still have a chance. "This is what I wished to speak to the solicitor for?"

"But how would I physically do it, living in another country? Could I take the diaries back to London? We would have to do a series of interviews... and these, you would have to let me tape. Though I suppose we could do them via Skype. But coming and going back and forth to Düsseldorf... and my job... oh Christ."

"No." He shook his head decisively. "You would have to come to Germany. You would be employed by Klingklang... we would have to work out the details. There would be a contract for you to be paid when the book was accepted by the publisher, but in the mean time, we would of course pay your living expenses, an allowance for food and travel, health insurance and the like... We would arrange it, pay it as a salary. You would join Klingklang's staff."

I stared at him, trying to work out how on earth I would be able to spring this. But I wanted it, oh god I wanted it. "But I can't just up and move to Germany. There's Brexit, for a start.. Oh my god, and my flat - though I suppose I could find a sub-letter. But move... to Germany... to Düsseldorf..."

Ralf smiled at me, the same paternal smile he had used on Müller. "You told me, two days ago, that you would move to Germany tomorrow, to remain in the EU, if you could find a tech company that would employ you. Well. Klingklang is a tech company, and we wish to employ you."

"I... I..." I stared out into the lights of the Hochhaus. "I think I need another glass of wine."

"I will get it. It will be a celebration." Ralf stood up, took my glass, and went back into the kitchen, switching the lights on to find his way across the room.

But before I could warn him, I could hear suddenly that my host had come home, and was stomping down the passage, since he had seen the lights in the kitchen go on. "Kate? Kate, are you home? How was your concert. Did you find your pop star... oh, hallo." Karlheinz and Ralf stared at one another across the kitchen, though it was hard to tell who was more surprised. "Hang on, I know you. I have seen pictures of you before."

Leaping to my feet, I pushed my way into the kitchen before anything awful happened. I had had more than enough embarrassments for one night. "Karlheinz!" I shouted, trying to intercept him. "This is Ralf Hütter, from Kraftwerk. Ralf, this is Karlheinz, my landlord."

"It is him. It _is_ him!" cried Karlheinz, delighted, and I could see he had already had a few drinks out on the town. "I recognise your picture, hee hee hee. Do you know, this one, she is so crazy for Kraftwerk, she comes to Düsseldorf, and gets up every morning at 6am, to go charging off on the tram to Krefeld."

"Yes, I know" said Ralf, smiling his most diplomatic smile. "She left me a really lovely drawing, and a note."

"She is so funny, this one," Karlheinz guffawed. "So bold, and yet so shy. I tried to set up a meeting - we called Thomas Müller, you know, from your old studio. My friend and I tried calling him, to get to your advocate, to try to set up the meeting, and this one, she screws up her face, and she says 'no no no, Karlheinzi, no. I am too shy to meet them' but now she has found you, so everything is good. Would you like a glass of wine? This one, she will feed you that disgusting sekt from the DDR, but I will give you a good glass of wine if you like."

Putting my hand to my face, I cringed, even as Ralf turned to me with a quite sweet expression. "You know, all of this would have been much easier if you had approached me through my advocate," he said quietly.

But Karlheinz was not done yet. "Hee hee hee, this is what I told her, but noooo..."

>>Karlheinz<< I interrupted, switching to German. >>Ralf wants to know about your golf game. Who is the man in the hall?<<

Fortunately, Karlheinz was successfully diverted, onto his own personal obsession. >>Oh yes, you like my little hobby? That was a gift, it is supposed to be me. Do you think he looks like me?<<

>>Where do you play?<< asked Ralf, perking up slightly. Karlheinz named the club, and Ralf immediately started to nod enthusiastically. >>Ah, yes. It is out in Oberkassel, yes? Florian used to be a member there. I know it well. I have played there many times, though perhaps not so much recently.<<

>>You must come!<< insisted Karlheinz. >>Any time you like, I will take you out. It's a fine course. The best in Düsseldorf.<<

>>Oh, I play out in Krefeld mostly now, but I will meet you for a game. What is your handicap?<< And at that point, my understanding of German failed, because they started to discuss the complexities of the game, and I knew no more than _kugel_ , when it came to golf. Back and forth, they chatted, for about ten minutes, until Karlheinz was addressing him like an old friend. But finally, they came back around, as Ralf explained what we were celebrating.

>>Do you know, I have persuaded her to move to Düsseldorf, and come to work for us. Don't you think this is a good idea?<< said Ralf.

>>Yes!<< exclaimed Karlheinz immediately. >>This is perfect for you both. And you know, Kate, if you want the room on a monthly basis, there is a forty percent discount. I would love for you to stay! What do you think?<<

>>Well, you will have to ask my boss. He holds the purse strings.<< I gestured vaguely towards Ralf.

And to my surprise, the pair of them actually started to discuss sums of money, and haggled it out right there. It was always strange to me, how unembarrassed Germans were, to discuss money right out in the open. Ralf bargained skilfully, negotiating an even lower fifty-perfect discount for a six-month term, but Karlheinz seemed very happy with the deal.

The pair of them went off to the living room to finish the deal, with Karlheinz arm-twisting and horse-trading like he had known Ralf for years. It was funny. I thought of Ralf as so shy, so standoffish, but Karlheinz just had one of those oversized personalities that put everyone at ease. And as soon as Karlheinz found out that Ralf used to live just down the road, he started bringing out the old lore about Düsseldorf, and had I not reminded the pair of them that I had to get up and catch a train the next morning, I do believe that both of them would have chatted about old Düsseldorf history until the sun rose.


	7. A New Employee At Klingklang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Writer moves to Germany, and starts her first day at Klingklang with some disturbing details of HR.

And so I found myself packing my bags and moving to Düsseldorf.

Well, I hedged my bets. I sublet my apartment to a friend of a friend who needed to be in London for six months, researching her PhD. She did not mind the books and the CDs, in fact she said she quite wanted to borrow some of them. So I packed only my unwanted clothes into the cupboard under the stairs and let her have the place fully furnished (albeit with a fairly large content insurance on my belongings).

My job, it was harder to leave. I asked for a six month unpaid leave of absence. Understandably, they didn't want to grant it, but I worked out a deal whereby, if I stayed for two weeks to train a contractor to cover the basics of my role, they would keep _a position_ open for me for six months, as if it were maternity leave, though they could not guarantee it would be the same position when I returned. Maternity leave! Could I possibly birth a book in six months? Well, that was down to the 'father', wasn't it.

Moving itself was almost terrifyingly easy. As politicians in London and Brussels rattled their sabres over the fates of European citizens in Britain and British citizens in Europe, trying to close up the borders at the English Channel, I found myself suddenly moving in the opposite direction. No one challenged me. The Germans I talked to about it seemed to think it an eminently sensible and understandable course of action; my English friends, I suspect were envious that I was leaving the sticky mess that Brexit was rapidly becoming. (Well, envious of the moving part, at least. I kept my reasons to myself, and hinted vaguely that I had been headhunted by a tech firm with a heavy confidentiality clause.)

The contracts came, from Ralf's lawyer, in English and in German. I tried to grasp the basics, but the details were much as we had discussed. Klingklang GmbH would pay my rent, and provide a small monthly allowance for food and transport, and there would be basic health insurance coverage. I was officially contracted for thirty-five hours a week, but only twenty-one of those had to be in the office; telecommuting and working from home were actively encouraged. I laughed when I read that there was no company car, but that the employer would be happy to sponsor a tax deductible payment plan for a bicycle. (I was slightly disappointed to find that this was standard practice in Germany; not Ralf's particular fetish.)

Half the fee would be payable when the "contracted item" was delivered to "the receiver"; the other half when "the third party item entered the public sphere." The contract went to great lengths to avoid ever specifying what it was I was supposed to be working on, and it specifically stated that any and all items produced while under this contract would become and remain the intellectual property and copyright of Klingklang GmbH. I really was signing away my baby, and Ralf would take all credit. That did give me pause, as I wondered if Ralf would suddenly start claiming any and all fan fiction I wrote while under his employ - or perhaps that was the point. Ralf wanted me working on his stories, not my own. I emailed the lawyers asking if my drawings could be excepted from that intellectual property clause, as I was worried for my sketches, but they agreed, and sent back amended documents, specially stating that any personal drawings, sketches or photographs were to remain my own property.

I signed, and the next morning, a first class train ticket to Düsseldorf appeared in my inbox. So that was it; I was really doing this. I packed two suitcases of clothes, put my important books and CDs and documents into a crate to be shipped over after me, and got in a taxi for St Pancras.

I arrived at the Hauptbahnhof on a crisp Friday afternoon, dragging my suitcases across the road to the tram stop, as the city seemed to be filling up with revellers. I had Saturday and Sunday to adjust and get settled, then I was expected on Monday morning at the office. The Office! Would I ever get used to the idea of calling Klingklang the office? Then again, would I ever get used to the idea that this 709 - arriving 'sofort' - was now "my" tram? Or that the little bistro on the corner was now "my" local.

Karlheinz greeted me like a long-lost daughter, helped me carry my suitcases up the stairs (I would be bloody fit after six months in Düsseldorf) and then left me, to go out on his weekly social round of the Altstadt. I sat on the bed, staring up as the lights came on in the Mannesmann Hochhaus, and tried to get used to my new life. Once my head had stopped spinning, I brushed my hair, put on my coat, and went downstairs to have supper and my first bottle of Altbier, to celebrate my move.

Almost as soon as I sat down, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Good lord, it was Ralf. I had forgotten that I was supposed to text or email when I got into town. So, to my surprise, Mr 'Handys Are Causing The Decline And Fall Of Western Civilisation' had actually texted me. I felt strangely honoured. Sheepishly, I texted back and told him I had had a good trip, but been waylaid by Karlheinz, and that I would see him on Monday. That reminded me; I had to try to get a German SIM card for my iPhone, otherwise the roaming charges would wipe me out.

On Saturday, I went shopping, buying food, a PAYG SIM card and various sundry items that I had forgotten to pack. The Rewes off Carlsplatz was now my local supermarket; the vegetable market where Florian Schneider had once shopped for asparagus with Iggy Pop was now my local farmer's market. I walked as far as the Kö and started to laugh, wondering if I would ever be so bold as to shop in the elegant boutiques there. Probably not; I could not believe I would ever be so slim as to fit in the ridiculously expensive clothes there.

On Sunday, I took a long walk, up and down the Rhine, trying to get my bearings, and trying to get my head around the fact that I really had moved to Germany. It was nippy, and I was glad of my leather jacket, but the Rhine smelled clean, the air much fresher than the deeply polluted bowl of the Thames. I could almost feel the top layer of my skin starting to peel off, sloughing the dirt of London. Enviously, I watched cyclists rolling up and down under the pollarded trees on the Rhine promenade, wondering if I should hire one myself. As an elderly man in a tweed suit and wraparound sunglasses wove in and out of pedestrians, doffing his cap as he passed, I thought I had no excuse of age or unhealthiness, not to start enjoying this healthy, outdoor lifestyle.

Then on Monday morning, I packed my laptop in my bag, walked to the UBahn, then got on the tram to Meerbusch.

To my surprise, but also my relief, Ralf did not meet me at the studio. I rang the bell, and an unfamiliar man's voice answered. I told him I was Kate, and was buzzed in. Of course, the first day at a new job meant there was paperwork. There was a secretary sitting in the front office, an older woman in her late 50s or early 60s perhaps, though still very good-looking in that petite, blonde and bosommy sort of way. She looked me over, then gave me forms to fill in, and took copies of my passport. 

The man who had buzzed me in appeared, introduced himself as Günter, the manager, and took my photo with a digital camera. He was a very tall, very German looking man with icy blue eyes and a long, rectangular face below slicked-back grey hair. For a moment, I wondered if he were some relation of Ralf's, but no, he was just a local, and they all just seemed to have that look. The tall German disappeared for twenty minutes, leaving me nervously checking my phone, then he came back and handed me a magnetic pass with my photo, a bar code, and an official logo stamped on it.

>>Don't lose that<< he warned me. >>That's not just your office pass, but it will be your Access All Areas tour pass as well.<<

>>Tour?<< I stuttered stupidly.

>>Yes, we're going to Mexico in a few weeks.<< He held the door open, and gestured for me to follow him through.

>>Wait, you don't expect me to... go to Mexico?<<

>>Don't worry, it's all paid for. Gudrun, who you just met, will book your flights and the hotel. When we tour, Ralf likes the whole studio to go with him, it helps him feel at home. So don't worry, it'll be just like going to work, but in another country.<<

"Hola," I said, wondering what else Ralf had forgotten to tell me about this bizarre business set-up of his.

Günter gave me a slightly fuller tour of the building, actually explaining to me what each room was for, and introducing me to the various other techs that worked there. I did my best to try to remember names, but I felt quite overwhelmed already. My guide explained the house rules, pointed out the lights above various studio doors which warned when it was permissible to enter, then explained about the kitchen, opening the fridge and a dishwasher that I had not even noticed. Hot drinks, sandwiches and fruit were provided free of charge, but never ever ever eat the organic avocado and hummus sandwich in the top left of the fridge, as this was pretty much the only sacking offence. That, and talking to the press, of course. Any and all contact with the media had to be cleared through Gudrun, and that included social media, such as Facebook.

I haltingly told him I didn't have a Facebook, but kept silent about my Twitter and Tumblr. I had, oddly, surprising even myself, neglected to so much as mention my move on Tumblr, though I'd hinted about being head-hunted on Twitter, the same white lie I'd told my closer friends. I just did not want to have to explain myself, or face the inevitable questions and insinuations about 'why Düsseldorf'. I knew that I wouldn't be able to keep up a fiction that I was still living in London for much longer, but I wanted to keep the transition low-key.

Günter gave me a long, careful searching look as if to ascertain the veracity of my statement, but then shrugged and led me up the catwalk stairs, towards Ralf's office. But instead of heading into the boss's room, he showed me instead to the small secretary's room next door. >>Ralf thought it would be easiest for you to work in here. You have a laptop, yes?<<

>>I brought my Mac.<< I looked about the small room, noting that an ergonomic looking chair had been installed by the matte black desk, but there was no getting around the fact that it was basically a closet. I wondered if I would be allowed to take over part of the small seating area, if I needed to be more comfortable.

>>Yes, we're an all-Mac shop now. Made the switch about ten years ago thanks to Müller, and it's so much easier. Well, there's an external monitor there if you need it. Network point there, though most of us are on the WLAN. Your user name and password are here...<< He dug in a desk drawer and produced a small sheaf of paper printed with various important details, phone number, fax, door code and the like. >>Oh. Have I shown you the fire escape yet? Back down the catwalk, and out the kitchen door onto the roof. There's a metal staircase down to the street; meeting point is the far side of the parking lot. There are fire drills every three months. Listen for short, sharp blasts on the alarm. A long, continuous, high piercing tone, though, means there is an intruder, so stay in your office.<<

>>Right. I'll try to remember that.<< I put my bag down on the desk and tried to think of this small, gunmetal grey room as my office, but my brain wouldn't quite perform the operation.

>>I think Gudrun put pens and some stationery in your drawers. Let her know if you need anything else. Do not bring anything from home - Ralf is very particular about the branding... and of course he is perhaps justified in being a bit paranoid about letting intellectual property out of the building. You will, of course, already have signed the legal notice, yes?<<

>>Yes of course<< I said, and dug in my desk to find new black gel pens and a rather intimidating looking black notebook embossed with red Klingklang branding discreetly across the bottom. Christ, I wondered what that would fetch on eBay. >>May I use my own pens?<< I quipped.

Günter shifted lightly from foot to foot, making a strange face. >>Well, only if they're black. Ralf is quite particular about black pens.<<

>>I prefer blue pens<< I said, wondering what else Ralf might prove to be annoyingly particular about.

>>Ralf does not think that blue pens reproduce as well as black pens.<<

>>Why would my personal notes need to be reproduced?<< I asked, feeling my hackles going up.

>>Look<< said Günter, sitting down gently on the edge of my desk. >>People either adjust to life here, or they don't last. It will help matters, the sooner you get your head around the fact that nothing you produce in this building belongs to you. It all belongs to Klingklang. So everything is done the way that Ralf likes, no questions asked.<<

I stared at him, taking a few moments to translate the German metaphors, and wondering if I'd got the meaning quite right. >>So nothing I work on, in this building, belongs to me. It all belongs to Ralf.<<

>>Precisely.<< He smiled with relief that I seemed to have grasped this.

>>Everything? All of us?<<

>>All<< agreed Günter.

I couldn't help myself, my journalist's curiosity kicked in. >>What, even Fritz and Henning?<<

Günter did not even smile. >>Those of us who have been with the organisation for a long time have negotiated different contracts. Publishing rights, percentages and the like. But this is not the contract you have signed.<< There was a pause as he let that sink in. So some musikarbeiters were more equal than others. >>Do you have any other questions? Otherwise, I will leave you to get settled in.<<

I smiled tightly. >>Is Ralf next door, then?<<

At this, Günter's long, solemn face cracked into a subtle smile. >>No. You will never see Ralf in before noon. Those of us who actually wish to get things done choose to come in a few hours early.<<

>>I see.<< Günter nodded a little stiffly, almost as if he were bowing, but before he left, I called to him. >>Just one thing... where's the ladies' room?<<

>>Ladies' room?<< I could see it took him a moment to decipher my idiom, but then he let out a little embarrassed laugh. >>The toilets have no gender. But Müller and Gudrun have claimed the large disabled toilet by the merchandise distribution centre. I suggest you use that one. It tends to be tidier.<<

>>Thanks.<< I took a few minutes to put some of my things away. I set out my laptop, arranged the wrist guard I had brought into the correct position, then defiantly put a blue ballpoint into my desk drawer. When I was satisfied with my desk, I made my way downstairs. The ladies' loo was easy enough to identify by the computer-printed sign that declared "KEINE SCHWANZ", clearly Müller's work. It was indeed very tidy, with a large disabled loo and two smaller stalls kept fresh by the distinctive citrus tang of an air freshener, plus a small shower cubicle in the corner. There were a couple of bottles of shampoo and shower gel, onto which someone had written >>ladies only<< and someone else had amended >>ladies and müllers only<<. I made a mental note to bring a towel to work. Then I went back to the kitchen, made myself a cup of English Breakfast Tea, which someone had been kind enough to supply in the kitchen cabinet, and tried to settle down to work.

I spent the first hour just wrestling to get my laptop onto the network. It wouldn't recognise the WLAN, so I had to physically plug it in, which took up the only port my ancient laptop had left. Then again, I would have to check the official Klingklang policy on Dongles before I tried to put anything else into that port. I had a sneaking suspicion that Ralf's opinions on dongles would be the same as his on blue pens: VERBOTEN Just as a precaution, I found myself password protecting my computer's hard drive with my own private key, then tried to log to the network with the supplied username.

At first, my laptop didn't want to recognise the network, but finally I remembered to delete the old 3G mobile-modem and reactivate the Airport, and first the internet popped up, and then the Klingklang network. It took me a while to find my own personal network folder, as they were set up not by anything sensible, like surname, but by team. Unsure of the German, I checked every single branch of the tree, until finally I checked Geschäftsführer, more out of desperation than anything else, and there, below Hütter, was a folder with my name on it. I didn't dare check Ralf's folder, but in mine was a copy of the handbook on my desk, and a PDF of my contract.

As it turned out, I had been given an email account, which amused me greatly. The thought of emailing various friends from kate@klingklang.de was highly amusing, but I refrained, remembering once again that it was highly likely that anything I emailed to or from that account was, again, property of Ralf Hütter. So I closed that and started looking for a printer. About 30 seconds after I started poking through the printers, an email arrived from mueller@klingklang.de bidding me welcome and telling me the name and location of the best printer to connect to. Well, that showed me exactly how private the network was, and who was monitoring it. I emailed her back thanking her, and she sent a friendly joke saying that she was going to remind me to put a password on my hard drive, but she saw I had already beat her to it. Ha! I wrote back saying I was Keine Schlappschwanz, to show I had seen her little sign. OK, it was going to be fun working here, I thought, as she fired back some more unofficial advice, about how best to tread lightly around "Der Chef".

I was still deeply engrossed in the conversation, when I was startled by a rap on the door frame. Looking up, I was surprised to see Ralf grinning at me, still wearing his outdoor jacket, a black backpack slung across his shoulders. "Hello, and welcome," he said, his eyes flashing.

"Hello," I said, and quickly fired off one last email to Müller. >>Shit, gotta go. Chef's here. Tschüssssssss!<<

"When you are finished, come through and see me, please," he said, and turned to go.

>>No, no, I'm not doing anything. Müller was just showing me some of the ropes. I've been waiting for you<< I protested.

Ralf rearranged his mouth into more of a grim line, though his eyes were still twinkling. >>Müller takes some liberties. I would avoid falling into her habits. I trust Günter has provided you with the handbook?<<

>>Yes.<< I gestured towards the sheaf of papers, which was, fortunately, still open on my desk from when I had first tried to log onto the network.

>>Good<< said Ralf, then looked about my little office with a slightly forlorn air. The walls were a very dark matte grey, which looked black until you saw the actual black matting covering the floor. >>I am sorry it is a little bare in here. If you have... posters or photos you wish to display, please let Günter or Gudrun know, and they will find frames to put them up.<<

>>What, I can't just have one of your spare gold records?<< I quipped.

Ralf laughed at this, that single breathy puff, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. >>We shall see. Come through, we have much to discuss.<<


	8. Framework

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ralf and the Writer start to work on his book, almost immediately they start to clash. But she is learning ways of getting the best material out of him, and soon finds the key to get him to open up.

Ralf took off his heavy coat, and hung it on the back of the door, revealing that today, he was wearing a Fred Perry shirt, black with white stripes around the collar and the arms. I smiled, and wondered if this were a playful reference to our conversation the other day, but I didn't get the chance to ask. Almost immediately, we set down to work. Well, my first job was being sent downstairs to fetch him a cup of coffee. That was something I was going to have to train him out of, though I didn't quite have the guts to make terrible coffee, not least since the machine was entirely automated. When I returned, he had set out several stacks of paper on his desk, and he gestured for me to pull up a chair on opposite him.

>>This<< he said, gesturing to the first stack >>Was my first attempt at a manuscript. It is absolutely terrible. I am showing it to you only for the brief factual background it may contain, but also to show you why you are writing this work, and not I.<<

I picked it up and leafed through it. It wasn't as bad as he claimed, but... well. He wrote English like a German. Although his grammar was technically correct and his spelling, of course, was perfect, the constructions were so belaboured that no native English person would ever have written like that. I could see already why he had hired me. >>Well<< I hedged. >>I can work with some of this. Any start is better than none, it can provide a backbone.<<

>>Ah. The backbone. Exactly!<< Ralf smiled, delighted with this metaphor. >>The framework, I have been thinking about. I have written the outline for everything we wish to cover, here. Is this not useful?<< He pushed the paper across the desk, as excited as a little boy, and as eager for praise.

>>That is really helpful. Absolutely brilliant start; what I would tell any writer to start with, though obviously, we may go off...<< I frowned as I flipped through the two pages. Each page was divided into groups of four, with a further additional section at the back. Nine chapters? Then I saw the title headings. I was about to blurt out _Ralf, no_... when I caught myself and tried to sugar-coat my reaction.  >>These are the eight albums from Der Katalog, plus 'Die Zukunft'.<<

>>Yes. This is my idea. Do you like it?<< He beamed as if expecting complete approbation.

I took a deep breath. >>Ralf, your life did not start with Autobahn.<<

>>Yes, but Kraftwerk starts with Autobahn.<< he said doggedly.

I shook my head very slowly, biting my lip.

>>Well<< said Ralf, taking the outline back across the desk. >>Perhaps you can cover the earlier material in a preface. I expect you will push me to include some banal biographical details, but we can keep them brief, I hope?<<

>>Well<< I countered. >>There are many things I am curious about. I think, with all the misinformation over the years, it would be good to issue some official corrections, clarifications of contradictory stories I've read in the press over the year. You don't have to draw back the veil completely, but countering some misinformation would be a start.<<

>>Such as.<< Ralf lowered his chin and set his jaw, the perfect commas of his eyebrows tilting down in a determined line, but it looked like he was at least prepared to give me a chance.

>>Was your father a doctor, or a textile merchant?<<

>>Ach!<< Ralf really looked quite cross, a scowl settling across his thin lips. >>That Eberhard Kranemann is a liar and a fantasist. He was never a member of my band; he was only a...<< There followed a string of German words I couldn't understand, so I raised my finger, and tapped on the German-English dictionary that he still had on his desk. Ralf switched to English almost seamlessly "A scenester. A hanger-on. What I think you English call a _Hipster_ these days. He was Florian's friend, not mine. He never even _met_ my parents."

>>So your father was...?<< I prompted.

>>A surgeon. The finest surgeon in Krefeld, maybe in all of Düsseldorf. He was very skilled and highly trained. I don't know where this textile merchant business came from. Krefeld may be the Velvet and Silk City, but my family have not been involved in this trade since the Middle Ages. Surely we do not have to go back to the sixteenth century to find an ancestor of mine that actually made hats, for this book?<< He punctuated this speech with quick, lively movements of his eyebrows, that I was slowly learning to recognise signalled humour.

I risked a laugh. He smiled and folded his hands in front of him. This, I realised, I needed to handle delicately, and would only work if I managed to convince him that it was his own idea. >>So where do you think the story begins?<<

Ralf considered this for a few seconds, then nodded decisively. >>This is simple. The story begins when Florian and I met for the first time, This you already know. The music academy at Remscheid.<<

There, that was easy. Ralf wasn't so difficult to persuade at all. I leaned down and dug in my bag, extracting the small tape recorder I had purchased for interviews. Switching it on, I placed it gently on the table between us. "What were your first impressions, when you met Florian?"

Ralf frowned, and looked down at the table, suddenly guarded again, his nostrils flaring as he pulled back his head, like a wary turtle.

"Sorry! Was war deine erster eindruck...."

"No, I don't mind speaking in English. It might even be easier to do interviews in English, since you must write in English. But this..." He gestured towards the tape recorder then looked up at me plaintively. "Must we?"

"I'm sorry, but I do need to be able to document these conversations. I've already signed away all rights to the tapes, but I need the reference." As Ralf pulled a face, I leaned down and dug in my bag, finally pulling out a light cotton scarf I had been wearing that morning. As I gently covered the tape recorder with the scarf, I repeated, "Your first eindruck of Florian."

Ralf leaned back in his chair, and shut his eyes. "I will never forget my first glimpse of Florian. He just has one of those faces, that once you have seen, you never forget. I noticed him immediately, in class. He had a highly intelligent look. A curious look, a very penetrating look. You know that gaze he has, yes?" 

I nodded, smiling to myself at the thought of Florian's silvery-blue stare. "Yes."

"He was the same, even then." He sipped at his coffee, and continued. "He did not talk much, in class - he was still very shy, in those days. But when he played... phew! He blew me away! This was a young man who had the facility to make his entire personality known, through his playing. You know, the flute, most people think of as a very pretty, gentle, pastoral instrument. But Flori had such command, he could make his flute angry, sad, energetic, furious, as the mood took him. A most unusual player. Very unorthodox, which I think drove the teachers a little crazy. I think they gave him a bit of a hard time, because, you see, they thought of him as a spoiled rich kid, you know, here comes the famous architect's son. He's too spoiled to even try to do things properly. But it was obvious to me that he was as highly talented as he was high spirited. Unconventional, which I liked. And talented! I thought from the first moment I heard him play, yes, I want to make music with this young man."

"Do you remember who approached whom first?" I probed.

Ralf thought about this for a moment. "Do you know, I can not really recall. We were much thrown together, that summer, because both of us were so very shy. That is something that you caught, in your story. We were both very much loners, wallflowers. What is this English expression? I love English expressions that say so much with such economy. We kept our selfs with our selfs? Something like this. Oh, I have forgotten it. It's such an evocative phrase, please use it."

"You kept yourselves to yourselves." I made a comment in my notepad.

"Just so." Ralf smiled then pursed his lips, as if rolling the phrase around on his tongue. "We kept ourselves to ourselves." These old memories actually seemed to be rather pleasant to him. "Thinking more on it, I believe I approached him, at the start. I noticed that he had a flute with some electronics attached to it - a microphone built into the mouthpiece. You can see it in some early photos of our performances. I remember I found this curious, so I asked him about it, and we fell to talking. Yes, you must put that in the book. It is highly, how do you say... a foreshadowing. Our very first conversation was about electronics." He smiled to himself, pleased, as I scribbled away at my notes.

"Did you have any sort of inkling, when you first talked to him, that this was someone you would spend the next forty years working with?"

Ralf tapped his lips thoughtfully. He was forever playing with his face as he tried to think. He would touch his lips, scratch his beard, trace the line of his jaw with his fingertips. "I would like to say so, but that would be hindsight. I will say that we found a rapport, very very quickly. He liked to talk about the same things that I liked to talk about. It was much easier than talking to other musicians."

"What sort of things did you like to talk about?"

The question seemed to take him by surprise, as Ralf shrugged rather vaguely, looking startled. Already, I was starting to learn how he got through interviews. It always seemed like he had prepared some sort of script, which he would trot out on a superficial level, with great charm, to satisfy an interviewer. But I knew I had to keep pushing, through charm or persistence, to subtly prise this superficial layer off, and try to get beneath. Once under that hard carapace of carefully prepared script, Ralf became suddenly soft and awkward, hesitating and um-ing and ah-ing, going all shy, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks as he looked down, avoiding my gaze or composing his thoughts. Honestly, sometimes it felt like pulling teeth to get anything out of him that wasn't already on his script, but I knew I had to try. The book wouldn't be worth a damn if I couldn't get down there.

"Come on, Ralf, indulge me." Suddenly remembering what he had said before, about viewing me almost as a pretty girl he wanted to impress, I leaned forward, put my hand on the desk in front of him and looked full up into his face, flirtatiously  smiling and holding his gaze for just a second too long before he finally looked away, his mouth crumpling into that shy, bashful little-boy smile. "You enjoyed talking about the same things - what sort of things?"

"Things," he supplied at last, a slight colour coming to his cheeks. "You know, most musicians are always forever gossiping, who has played this gig, who has done that performance, talking always about other people. I found this very boring, this chit-chat, this gossip. Flori was better at that kind of shop talk, than I was. But if I asked him about a gadget, he would chat quite happily about how it was _made_. He liked to get to the bottom of things. Inside things. I liked that. That kind of practical talk. Not the gossip; I have never been very good with gossip."

I looked at Ralf with new compassion, thinking about this. The awkwardness; it wasn't arrogance. Ralf just wasn't a people-person. But he was forced to do a people-person's job. I lowered my face to look up into those eyes, still a very bright blue under eyebrows that had faded to a greying blond. As his eyes met mine, he smiled, biting his lower lip with a softness I might have classed as flirtation from anyone else, but in Ralf, I suspected it was pure shyness. "So you found it easier to talk to Florian about concrete things, than about abstract things?"

"Oh, no, he was quite comfortable talking about abstract ideas. We talked about art, we talked about politics - it was 1968, after all, and this was how students talked. Very quickly, we found it very easy to talk to to one another. It's funny, in those days, I have heard others describe him as difficult, or angry. Klaus, and Michael, you know, they said this. But I never found him so. I never found him difficult. We just clicked, and we never even needed to argue. Not in those days, at least." He opened his eyes again, and suddenly the most enormous look of loneliness passed across his face.

Something twisted inside me. I had got so used to pleasant, twinkly, smiling grandfatherly Ralf that it almost shocked me to see that raw pain, so naked on his face. I wanted to reach out and take his hand, but I knew better than to do so. I lowered my voice, trying to soothe him. "What changed?"

"You will have to ask Florian that. Nothing changed in me." It was hard to tell how he meant that 'will'; if it was merely metaphorical, or whether it was actually a request.

"I'm sorry. Do you want to stop? Do you need a moment?"

But Ralf shook his head and consciously rearranged his face back into a placid and neutral smile. "No. It is all a very long time ago, now. I am not one to chew over the past. I far prefer moving forward, moving onwards."

"Well, to produce a biography, you kind of have to go over the past," I pointed out, though I did my best to keep my tone light, teasing. "I can see that it makes you sad, but... you know, if you just hold that sadness for a moment, feel it, and then let it go... it's not so bad."

This time, Ralf's smile was genuine. "I'm German," he said, with a hint of bemusement. "We are not so afraid to be sad. It's not like the English, and the Americans... Phew! The Americans, who think you must never be sad, or it is a great personal failure. We Germans, we accept sadness. In sadness, there is great beauty."

"Es ist schön, einsam zu sein," I echoed, without really meaning to.

Ralf laughed. "Yes, I see you have done your research. Yes. I believe that. It is nice to be lonely, especially in one's work."

"I liked the ambivalence of the German word, that it could just as easily mean, it is beautiful to be lonely."

Smirking slightly, Ralf tapped the dictionary lightly with the tips of his fingers. "You are starting to get the idea. That there are double meanings in everything."

"So tell me about Organisation. Was there a double meaning in that; the organisation of people into a group, the organisation of sound into music?"

Ralf picked up his coffee cup, finished his drink, then stretched, and started to tell me about the early days. For someone who did not want to talk about the early days, he talked for nearly two hours straight. Ralf had an incredibly precise memory, I was soon to discover, and highly visual. He could recall gigs they had played nearly fifty years earlier, the set-up of the stage, the position of the audience. Once he warmed to his topic, he kept dropping more and more details, as if retrieving memories from a hard drive that needed to warm up.

They had rehearsed at the Kunstakademie for a short time, as Beuys let Eberhard use the rooms there. Then there had been a brief period working at a villa that Florian's father had owned, and then they had hired the workshop on Mintropstrasse. That had been a real turning point, as it had been the first place that was theirs to use, day or night. It had been Florian's idea, and Florian's name on the lease, but that was where the two of them realised that their future belonged together. With a home of their own, they felt safe putting down roots, from which to branch out.

"But what about that period during 1971, when you left" I interjected.

Ralf made a sour face. "That was my father. The one and only time I ever bowed to parental pressure. Of course, I was a very proud young man. I did not want it getting out that I had been blackmailed into finishing my degree, by my father threatening to cut off my allowance. So I made some excuses, put some pathetic cover story about in the student press. But Florian and I continued to talk every week, on the telephone. And any weekend I was back from Aachen, I was straight over to Florian's workshop like a shot."

"So it was like a sabbatical, not a permanent resignation."

"It was never intended to be a permanent resignation. Florian knew this, though he was sworn to secrecy." Ralf's eyes sparkled at the memory, at the thought of getting one over on his father, even now he was long dead.

"Did you always have an adversarial relationship with your father?"

"Always. We never saw eye to eye, not until the day he died. He never liked what I did. Not even after I was very successful. It was never enough, for him." He crossed his arms to indicate that he wished to talk no further on the subject. I could see this was something I'd have to come back to another day, when he had started to trust me more. Although he seemed happy to talk about the early days with Florian, his own childhood and actual family still seemed off limits.

"Your view of him hasn't changed since you've become a parent yourself?" I probed.

Ralf's whole demeanour seemed to shift, as he uncrossed his arms and tilted his shoulders, gently scratching the back of his neck. It was almost as if he melted. His whole face just shone with love, as I realised with a start, this was the source of his twinkly smileyness the past dozen years. Ralf enjoyed being a father, in a way that had caught him utterly by surprise.

"Well. Being a parent has changed me in every way imaginable. One has no idea, how much it will change you. You have created a new person, for whom you are totally responsible, and whom one simply loves and is loved by, without logic or rationality... just love. It is magical. She has changed me in ways I could not even imagine, and cannot articulate wholly... which, unfortunately, make my father's actions and attitudes much harder for me to understand. I cannot reconcile the way that my father treated me, with the emotions I feel for my own daughter. It makes less sense, not more." He shrugged lightly, pain crossing his face for a moment, but that helplessly expansive smile at the thought of his daughter seemed to overwrite everything. "She is my whole world. My little girl."

Talking about his daughter, he started to open up just a little about his own childhood, by comparing his own childhood to hers, and how different he wanted to make hers. He left a little trail of hints, as he described his wonder as he had seen his mother, his sister, his wife, each manifesting some tiny part of themselves in this small human he had had a hand in creating. Yes, it had been a shock to recognise his own father's stamp in his domineering, perfectionist ways, that had, well... put off some of his colleagues. He tip-toed around the reference lightly, but his face opened up again as he described the challenges of parenting, in terms of letting go of his own domineering father. I probed a little more, and he unfurled like a flower, telling me things from his own youth he was trying so hard not to replicate in his daughter's life. He had watched how his sister had raised his niece, and realised parenting could be done another way. It seemed he would far rather spoil her a little bit, than risk being overly harsh with her.

And I suddenly saw it, how Ralf lived, the world he had created for himself at home. Ralf lived in a world of women: his wife, his daughter, his sister, his niece. He liked living among women, because among them, he could let go of the part of himself that needed to act like his father. He didn't act like a paterfamilias at home, at all. He acted like part of a tribe of Hütter women. His wife and his sister ran the show at home, and for this he was grateful. And suddenly, I caught a glimpse of why he had wanted a woman to write this book. He seemed to like who he was, when he was among women, more than he liked the Chef role he felt forced to perform in his band and at the studio.

"You're smiling," he suddenly said, leaning towards me. "What are you smiling about?"

I shook my head, and made a mental note, knowing this was something I should not write down in the notebook that he owned. "Never mind," I said, and lifted the cotton scarf to see how the little recorder was faring. Instead of tapes, it recorded onto little memory cards, like a camera, so there were still several hours left.

"Oh, turn that thing off," he sighed, gesturing towards it. "Here I am, banging on about my daughter, This is not very useful to you. And here, we have not even begun to talk about your ideas for a backbone, since you do not like my framework."

"Ralf, indulge me for a bit. For the first few interviews, I want you to ramble on about whatever captures your attention at that moment."

He frowned. "This is no way to write a book."

"No, it's not. But it's a good way to get to know you, your speech patterns, your ways of thinking and talking. It will help me build your voice, in my mind. And once I've started to notice what themes you return to, then I will start to build the framework of where we will take your book. Does that sound OK?"

Ralf looked doubtful, but spread his hands open in a conciliatory gesture, then smiled. "If you insist. I am doubtful, but... well, I must confess it is rather pleasant, in a self-indulgent way. Pleasurable in the same way that I expect being psychoanalysed is rather pleasurable."

"In your old age, you might actually come to enjoy talking about yourself?" I teased.

He tutted to himself, rearranging his piles of paper. "I can't help thinking this is terrible vanity. I don't like talking about myself because there simply is not much to tell. I am not a very interesting subject. Everything interesting about me has gone into the music. That is the best of me."

I gave him a long, hard penetrating stare, trying to work out if he really believed that or not. "I think you're interesting. I actually think you're fascinating."

He actually blushed. "Ach, you flatter an old man's vanity. Go on, get out of here, young woman. Don't you have writing to do. How long will it take you to transcribe all that?"

I looked at how many hours I had on tape, and made a face. "It'll probably take me at least a day. I type quickly, but you talk so fast."

"Go home, then." He waved his hand magnanimously. "Take tomorrow to type it all up. We regroup for another interview Wednesday around noon, yes?"


	9. Meet The Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanging out at Klingkland with Fritz and Henning, ~this is fine~...

When I got back to my office, I realised that this offer was not as generous as it sounded. It was past four already; he had been talking for over three hours straight. I packed up my bags, and looked up the time of the next tram. That was lucky; it would get me back to Düsseldorf just before the start of rush hour. I made it with only moments to spare, mostly because I managed to lock myself inside the building. I had to find Gudrun and ask her to show me how to work the lock to get out; turned out that one was required to both tap in and tap out with the identity cards. This wasn't even for timekeeping or payroll purposes, it was to track who was and wasn't in the building in the event of a fire, which was crucial for a workplace that employed so many people on such variable hours.

I stopped on the way home, and bought my own notebook, which Ralf would never even see or be aware of, let alone own, and a packet of blue biros. At home, I made myself supper, realising I had skipped lunch without even noticing, I had been so engrossed in Ralf's story. Quickly, before it could all fade, I jotted down my impressions and notes in my secret notebook, then took the recorder and my laptop to the desk to start transcribing.

Ugh, I hated the sound of my own voice so much, and it sounded even worse when I tried to speak German. But Ralf's voice... it was mesmerising, having his voice close in my ear, in the headphones. His speaking voice was so beautiful, low, soft, those sonorous vowels. Although it had deepened slightly, since the 70s, he still sounded like a young man. I closed my eyes and just listened to the tone of his voice, to the rhythm and cadence of his speech, wondering how I would capture that soft German accent that was so appealing and so distinctive.

Wait, stop, I told myself. You're jumping ahead of yourself. I rewound the recording, and started to type.

I finished about half of it that evening. The next morning I woke early, had a nice brisk walk down to the Mediahafen and back, then ate breakfast before sitting down to finish transcribing. By lunchtime it was done, so I walked up to Carlsplatz to buy vegetables I had forgotten, and ate a quick bowl of vegetable soup from a stall. Then I took my laptop down to the bistro, and sat in a corner, nursing Altbiers as I tried to bash it into a narrative. 

I opened another word document, sucked at my beer, opened a photo of Ralf on my desktop, then I thought about Ralf. I thought about being Ralf. I thought how he sat, his bad posture, his slumped shoulders, how he always seemed to be leaning forward slightly, like a dog leaning out the window of a car in motion. I thought about that funny breathy half-laugh of his. I thought about his habit of rubbing his face as he spoke. Then I moved the transcript to the story I wanted to open with, and set about translating from Ralf-speak into a convincing authorial voice that would pass for Ralf. I compacted it, chopping out his 'um's and his 'also's, and removing a few digressions. I grabbed another story from elsewhere in the interview, and merged the two anecdotes into one realistic scene. I added a bit of description - Ralf never bothered describing anyone, because of course I knew what Florian and Eberhard and Klaus looked like - and padded out other observations to give their characters a bit more weight. (Granted, I toned down some of his more scathing indictment of Eberhard, but I tried to paint a picture of an art school hipster.)

Five pages. How could I get only five pages out of 3 and a half hours of interview? Well, that was because the family stuff I wanted to save for later. This was the description of meeting Florian for the first time. I opened a photo of Florian in 1968, gawky, awkward smile, stooped posture, huge sideburns. I went through Ralf's descriptions of him again, and re-wrote their first conversation. Oh god, the grammar was awful, half the words were wrong because I had been typing so fast. I resolved not to drink in the afternoon, when I was working on this stuff, and asked for some dinner. Two meals out in one day? I had to watch my budget! I went through the text with a fine-toothed comb and pulled out all the mistakes. After careful consideration, I pulled out another chunk of Ralf's interview, and chopped it up and sprinkled it through the text. Now it was seven pages, that was a bit more respectable. Then I folded up the laptop, and had one last stroll up and down the Rhine as far as the Düssel and back, before turning in and going to bed.

The next morning, I decided to aim to get to Klingklang about 11, so I ate breakfast at home, had my now-typical morning walk down to the harbour, then set about one more edit before emailing the first draft over to Ralf. I warned him, again and again, that this was a first draft, a completely rough draft, and I more than expected him to pick holes in it, and we would probably completely rework it before I considered it anywhere near done. Oh Christ, but what if he hated it? What if he thought I had smoothed out all of the distinctive quirks that made him him, or worse yet, just replaced him entirely with some ersatz parody?

Calming myself, I hit send before I could change my mind, then hopped in the shower and walked up to catch the next tram to Meerbusch.

This time, at least I knew how to get in, though I wasn't sure if I should alert anyone to my presence. The red light was on above the rehearsal studio, so I didn't even attempt to have a look, but I did stick my head in the front office and said hello to Gudrun. I checked the synth museum, but Müller was nowhere to be seen, so I headed back towards the kitchen to get a cup of tea before heading upstairs to work. I noticed the dummies were not in their cases, so I chuckled to myself. "Maybe they went to a club, and there they started to dance," I half sung to myself, and I was still humming the song aloud as I swung into the kitchen.

And there, as casual as you like, sat Fritz and Henning, just hanging out at the kitchen table, having a cup of coffee with Müller, who was showing Fritz the internal circuitry of some new gadget while Henning browsed a newspaper. "Wir sind Schau..." the words just froze in my mouth. All three looked up, surprised, but I just blinked back at them. "Guten Tag," I just about managed to stutter out.

"'Tag," they repeated politely, but I could not stop staring. It just seemed to completely unreal, that they could be real people, sitting at a table. I didn't really think of them as fully human; I realised I thought of them basically as strange refractions of Ralf's own personality. Automatons. Fritz was tiny; that was the first thing that struck me. He wasn't any bigger than Müller, by whom he was sitting. He just seemed very pointed; pointed nose, pointed chin, close-cropped white hair that came down to a point on his forehead. Henning, by contrast, seemed very long and solemn and arched like a medieval cathedral, as pale as a medieval saint with his long, oval face and his shaven head. He wore small, wire-rimmed glasses offstage. Both of them were far more handsome in real life than they looked as tiny, lycra-clad ants on a stage, especially Fritz, who had something very boyish and pretty about him, despite the white hair and the lines about his eyes.

"Das ist Kate," said Müller, when she realised that I hadn't gone, and was still staring at them as I pressed the button for hot water for tea. "Hütter's neuem Spielzeug."

"Spielzeug?!?" I sputtered, outraged, as Henning repeated the same word, bemused.

>>She's a writer<< continued Müller, her smirk deepening. >>You know. For the Book.<< She said this last word, "Buch", with particular emphasis.

>>Ah, the book<< said Fritz, in a knowing tone.

>>The book?<< asked Henning, somewhat mystified. It was slightly disconcerting how the pair of them had almost the same voice, and I realised I had never actually heard either of them speak before.

>>The _Book_ << repeated Müller, raising her eyes towards the catwalk.

>>Oh, that book<< said Henning, catching on at last, and nodding towards me. >>Good luck.<<

The machine beeped, and delivered some steaming water into my cup, but it never really got hot enough to turn the tea a darker colour than a mild red. I swore, and wondered if I could convince Gudrun to buy an office kettle. >>Is he up there?<< I asked.

Fritz just laughed. >>No<< supplied Henning.

So I waited while my tea seeped, and tried not to stare. Both of them had been with the band longer now, than either of their predecessors. And yet they still seemed like the new guys. That must be weird for them. I cleared my throat, and grasped desperately for conversation. >>So, erm... any advice for a newbie?<<

>>Leave while you still can<< teased Fritz solemnly, and Henning and Müller both laughed.

>>No, in earnest?<< countered Henning. >>My advice would be to leave your ego at the door. It's the best job in the world, but you have to remember. It is a job. You are an employee. Never take any of it personally.<< He and Fritz exchanged meaningful glances.

>>By that, do you mean... would I... should I....<< I stumbled over the grammar as I realised that I'd used the singular instead of the plural form of 'you'.

But Henning smiled, peering over the top of his delicate, wire-rimmed glasses. >>Your accent<< he pointed out. >>Are you English or American?<<

I was grateful that he hadn't just automatically switched to English, like most of Germany seemed to do. >>I come from London.<<

>>Ah. Then I don't need to ask you about this<< he said, folding his newspaper back up and pushing it towards me so that I could see the cover. BITTE, NICHT DEN HORROR-CLOWN it declared, over coverage of the American election.

>>Oh my god, please don't tell me he got in...<< I muttered, glancing through the text, praying that I had misunderstood something.

>>It looks like he did<< observed Henning with a solemn head shake, as Fritz craned his neck to read the headline.

>>The Horror Clown?<< laughed Fritz, grabbing the newspaper by the corner and pulling it towards him.

But just at that moment, there was the sound of brisk, bouncing footsteps down the hall. In time, I would come to view those footsteps as just as distinctive and recognisable as the aggressively pointed chin and the voice, but Henning and Fritz snapped to attention before I did, pushing the newspaper away as if not wanting to be caught slacking on the job.

>>Greetings, greetings, hallo, everyone, Müller, feet off the seats. Are we all here? No. Where's Falk?<< Ralf said, all in a rush.

>>Reprogramming the bots. Herr Ralf keeps going out of synch.<<

Ralf glared at Müller, as if this were somehow her fault. >>Still? This was supposed to be finished yesterday. Can you give him a hand with the mechanics?<<

>>I've had a look at the mechanics, and it seems fine.<< protested Müller. >>It's the programming that's just one beat out. He says he should be done by two at the latest.<<

>>Two<< said Ralf, making a grand gesture of sweeping back his cuff and checking his watch. >>Well, Katrin, this gives us time to work.<< He moved closer towards me, placing his hand proprietorially on the small of my back. It would have felt slightly sexy, had I not still been perturbed by that word of Müller's. _Spielzeug_. Toy.  >>You have met Katrin, yes? She is the newest member of the team. She will be... erm, transcribing... interviews and diaries and so forth. For my book.<<

>>Yes<< I repeated, with Henning's words still echoing in my head. >>Transcribing.<<

>>Get me a coffee, Katrin, then come upstairs. Then we shall begin<< said Ralf briskly, then set off up the catwalk, whistling to himself.

The look on my face must have been something that could have soured milk, as Müller started to giggle as soon as he was out of earshot. >>Get me a coffee, Katrin<< she echoed.

>>A coffee-making toy. Just what Ralf needed<< hooted Fritz.

>>Don't take it personally<< said Henning quietly. >>It's always the newest person's job to fetch his coffee. Müller's just relieved he doesn't make her do it any more.<<

>>I always put too much sugar in it<< Müller confessed. >>It drove him crazy.<< 

It wasn't actually the request itself that bothered me, though obviously there was a whole host of symbolism in the act of making coffee, which Fritz and Henning and Müller seemed perfectly aware of. It was the fact that he had not even said _please_. That casual German _bitte_ , which lubricated every conversation. It was the lack of it that seemed so rude, almost jarring, the fact that it had not been a request, for coffee, but a command. It was this, rather than the awkwardness, that gave the impression of arrogance. But it felt disloyal to voice this displeasure in front of the band, so I merely shrugged and tried to remember the correct sequence of buttons to punch on the machine.

>>No... one more on the brown<< said Henning, but luckily, I caught it before the machine started grinding. >>That's it.<<

>>You're writing the whole damn book, aren't you, Katrin<< said Müller, with an expression that was half mischievous, half outraged on my behalf.

>>He gets to call me Katrin, because he pays me. The rest of you, you can call me Kate.<< I said, somewhat sharper than I intended. >>And if he says I'm transcribing, then I'm transcribing<< I added with a sigh.

>>She'll go far, this one<< giggled Fritz. >>Mark my words, she'll be running the place in six months.<< Müller smacked him on the elbow.

I took the coffee upstairs, and dumped my bag on my desk, plugging in my laptop, then plugging the recorder into the laptop port to charge it, ready for the next interview. Then, I picked up the coffee again, and walked through into Ralf's office, trying hard not to spill any.

>>Wonderful, wonderful, just put it on the corner there, then we'll talk about last night's transcription.<< said Ralf, who I could see, already had my chapter open on his screen. >>This is straight transcription, fair enough, you haven't had time to do anything other than type it up, but I just want to make sure, when you start to write this properly, you add a little more life, a little more intelligence to it...<<

I switched to English to make sure I wasn't missing a word. "No, no, Ralf. This isn't the transcription, this is the first draft. I've cleaned it up a lot, compacted it, consolidated a couple of different anecdotes to make the story flow better..."

Ralf pulled out a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket and perched them on the bridge of his nose, peering at the screen. He actually looked very cute in the heavy black-framed glasses, but I knew better than to tell him. "No, this is exactly the anecdote that I told you yesterday, about meeting Florian at Remscheid."

Something in me bristled, and I knew I should have followed Fritz's advice, and let it slide, but I felt I had to defend my capability as a writer. "If you want me to spruce it up a bit, make it cleverer, I can do my best to do so, but Ralf. I assure you, this is not the transcript as you spoke it. I have already done a lot of work on it. I can show you the original transcript file if you like..."

"Really?" Ralf looked at me, then looked back at the screen, creasing his brow. His perplexment seemed genuine, and I suddenly wondered if I shouldn't take this as a compliment; if I had captured his voice so perfectly that he really could not tell what I had written from what he had said. "Show me..."

"You'll have to come and look at my computer... I've got the transcripts on there..."

"You will have to put these on the network for me. I want copies of everything, of course," said Ralf, as he climbed to his feet and followed me through into the other room.

But of course, my recorder was charging, so I had to fiddle with it, look for another outlet and try to find an adaptor. "Do you have a... a steckdosen?"

Ralf grinned. "The steckdosen is in the wall."

"No, I mean the... never mind." I unplugged it and searched for the network cable.

"Why not plug it into the other port? It has another USB, I can see... ugh, what's wrong with it? What's happened?" He almost physically recoiled when he saw the mangled mess of metal where my laptop had fallen off the end of the bed a few too many times. "This is broken! And look, the screen is torn."

"Yes, it's an old laptop," I supplied, plugging in the network and switching it on.

"No, no, you can't possibly work on this," he persisted. "The frame is cracked, and... no, this is a hazard. And how can you even read the keyboard? You have worn all the letters off the keys."

"I don't need to. I touch-type," I told him, opening the folder with the transcript and copying it across to my folder on the network drive.

"No, no. I insist. You cannot work on a broken piece of equipment like this."

"It's fine, Ralf. I've been using it for years like this. These old models are tough as old boots..."

But Ralf was not having it. "But a machine like this. What if it breaks? If this machine goes down, I lose the entire book. No, you cannot work on something so important on such a piece of rubbish. Let us find you a decent laptop."

I followed him downstairs, but Müller and the lads had gone. Ralf pushed on, stomping back to the front office to find Gudrun. >>Gudrun, where is the spare laptop? Do we still have one lying around?<<

>>No, Ralf. We sold it to my daughter, remember, when she went away to college? I did the depreciation on it myself, to make sure you got the best tax deal.<<

>>Where is Günter?<< He went off in search of the manager, but he was no help, either. The computers were all accounted for. I thought that would be the end of it, and I would be allowed to get back to work, but Ralf was quite insistent that I should not use my decrepit old laptop for company business. >>Come on, we are going to the shop. Gudrun, where is the company credit card? I need it. Yes, come on, Katrin, bring the broken one, we are going to the Apple Store.<<


	10. Apple Store

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate is starting to lose her fear of Ralf a little bit. And Ralf is developing a very bad habit of starting to buy her very expensive gifts.

I climbed back to my office to pack up my poor old laptop, thinking that Ralf was merely going to pay to have it fixed. Which, to be fair, was pretty decent of him, though I wasn't sure how long it might take, and I didn't want to be parted from my computer for too long. On our way out, he stuck his head into the rehearsal space, called to Falk and the bot technicians to ask them to postpone the robot run-through until 3pm, and then we breezed out into the parking lot.

"It was a good thing I didn't cycle this morning" he quipped as he clicked the button to unlock his car. It was getting to the point where I actually recognised it, climbing into the passenger seat with a slightly worrying familiarity. As he pulled on his driving gloves, and ran the engine to warm it up, he gestured towards the stereo. "If you wish to select some music for the drive, please be my guest."

Peering at the dial, I tried to work out how to turn it on, feeling distinctly put on the stop. "I don't really know German radio stations very well."

But he reached down and pulled a retractable cable from the car's dashboard. "You can play from your phone... I presume you play music from this device? All the other young people of my acquaintance do so."

"Erm, yes..." I did have my phone with me, but there was something I'd half forgotten, some reason I didn't quite want to get it out in front of Ralf.

"Please put it on, then. Play me the electronic sounds they are listening to in England. I am curious." He put the car into gear as he spoke, and reversed out of the parking lot.

I took the cable from him and plugged it in, digging through my iTunes for something I thought he might like. "I've got both the Kaitlin Aurelia Smith albums on here... if you'd like to hear some gorgeous Buchla programming... or, erm, I've got the new Factory Floor if you like really minimal electronic grooves."

"Factory Floor, this sounds good. I like the name."

I dialled it up and pressed play, and the stereo hummed and clicked its way to life.

Ralf listened intently, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove, as I watched his face intently for signs of approval or disapproval. It was the first time I'd ever suggested any music to him, and I was worried about his reaction. But he smiled, nodding his head gently in time with the beat. "This is an old fashioned analogue sequencer, isn't it?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Ah, I remember the type well. We used to have a lot of fun with this." He beamed his approval, and I relaxed, carelessly putting the phone down on a ledge on the dashboard between us as I bent down to re-zip my bag closed.

As we stopped at a traffic light to let a tram go by, Ralf picked up my phone and peered at it intently. "Who did you say this was? Factory Workshop?"

But his face froze as he caught sight of the lock screen of my phone. Oh Christ. _That_ was the reason I didn't want to let Ralf see my phone. "Factory Floor," I corrected, snatching it back from him, but it was too late. He had already seen the wallpaper, an old photograph of a handsome, young Florian giggling excitedly into his hand.

For a moment, he looked over at me, and his expression was almost impossible for me to read. If it were possible, he looked at the same time both slightly annoyed and also completely bemused. But then the traffic light changed colour, and he had to throw the car into gear, diverting his attention back to the road. It was several minutes before he spoke again, as I felt more and more embarrassed, my face slowly turning an even deeper shade of red. "I don't mind. It's OK. I knew you were a fan."

I squirmed in my seat. "I just... didn't want you to see that."

He laughed at my discomfort, and risked another sideways glance, chewing on his lip slightly. "You didn't want me to see that it is him, and not me?"

I avoided the question implicit in that statement. "Look, the photo makes me laugh. He just has such a wonderful smile, it's impossible for me to look at that photo and not smile myself. It cheers me up."

"There is no need to apologise. I find your crush very sweet," he assured me. I remained very quiet, as I realised from our direction that he was planning to head across the river into central Düsseldorf, towards the huge Apple Store at the top of the Kö. When I did not speak, he added, somewhat mischievously, "And so would he, actually. He would be very flattered. I told you, he would fancy you."

"Oh my god, shut _up_ , Ralf," I almost shrieked, then covered my mouth with my hand when I realised what I'd just said.

He laughed his little breathy laugh as the car sailed up over the Oberkasseler Bridge. "I think you are starting to lose your fear of me, a little. This is good." 

"I'm not afraid of you," I said quickly.

He glanced over as we slowed for traffic opposite the Kunstakademie. "Actually, I must say, I am quite impressed by how calmly you have handled all this. This English reserve, I think it a good thing, in this case."

"All what," I laughed. "Why, this is totally normal, going to work and seeing half of Kraftwerk at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. This is _fine_!"

That got two breathy little laughs. "Not the slightest bit impressed."

"Nah. I was... well, yes. I confess, I was a little... awed at first. When you first turned up at K21. But Henning and Fritz? I'm not going to fail the Iggy Test over Schmitz and Hilpert."

"The Iggy Test?" asked Ralf, showing a row of small, neat teeth in a cautious smile. "What is this?"

"Your old pal, Mr Pop? We have a friend in common, you know," I told him with a knowing glance and a slightly exaggerated air as I glanced across the car. "Herr Osterberg was my host, for a time." I was name-dropping, showing off a little, sure, but it had the desired effect, as his interest was piqued.

"Alright, I would like to hear this story," he said, with more curiosity than he might have wanted to let on, tapping the steering wheel impatiently. So there _was_ still a fanboy somewhere inside Ralf.

"It was Ron I actually knew, from oh, almost 20 years ago now. I met him through my sister, who was living in Ann Arbor. In the mid-90s, and for over a decade after, she was working for Ron as his PA. She knew I was a fan, so she introduced us. When I visited, we got friendly, he took us out to dinner a couple of times, and we just hit it off."

"Ron Ashton? I don't think we ever met. Obviously, I admired his playing on those Stooges records. I thought he was a seriously talented musician, but they had separated at the time we knew them."

"He was a really friendly, big-hearted guy. I know he and Pop had their spats, but he always struck me as really sound. But his secret was that he was a massive history geek. So every time the Stooges came through London, we would get together, and I would take him to, say, Spittalfields to see the Jack the Ripper pub, or down to the Tower of London, or off to look at the HMS Belfast. Or, we'd just hang out in the hotel and watch Time Team and Wreck Detectives. You know what it's like to be on tour. Jet lag and midnight television."

"Yes, it is always good to know locals, to see a familiar face. We do this, too. We have friends - in Detroit, for example - who we make sure to see every time we pass through. Though they take us clubbing, rather than to historical sites. That would be interesting, though. I like the idea of visiting cultural... locations, while on tour. But there never seems to be the time."

"Well, one day I got this call, saying come and meet them at their hotel in London. The band were about to go and play this big festival. This hot-shot music journalist, the editor of a big international magazine, he was supposed to come with them on tour, and write a big piece on it. But this guy, he gets very drunk the night before, and he absolutely loses his shit when he meets Jim. Makes a complete fool of himself, and gets chucked off the tour. Ron takes me aside and asks me, well, I know you're a pretty good writer. Do you want to come on the bus, and cover the gig instead?"

"Your big break," chuckled Ralf. "So this is how you became a music journalist. My old friend, Iggy Pop. Well, he always had good taste."

"Well... It was their first reunion tour. It was a big deal. A lucky break. But I knew, if I wanted to stay on the bus, I had to stay cool. So I remained calm, and played it really cool, acting very casual and nonchalant, even with - especially with - Jim. And Jim saw me, hanging back, observing, taking it easy, and he decided to test me. Coming offstage after a big gig at a festival - you know how wild he gets onstage, when he turns from Jim into Iggy. So right as he was coming offstage, he runs right up to me and he screams 'RAWR!" I just looked at him and said 'rawr' right back, with a smile. And that was it; we were fine. So, this is my own test, now. Whenever I am in a situation that makes me nervous, if I have to meet someone famous, or interview them, I just ask myself... are they cooler than Iggy Pop? No? Then I have kein grund zur Aufregung."

A little breathy burst of laughter, followed by a sly smile and a raised eyebrow as he risked a glance at me. "Are you saying I am not as cool as Iggy Pop, then."

I burst out laughing. "Well... maybe if you started wearing those very tight leather trousers again, maybe. But until then... sorry."

"I don't think they fit," sighed Ralf, with a teasing edge, but then he picked up my phone, and and pressed a key to make the giggling photo of Florian appear. "How about Flori, though. Would you think Flori was cooler than Iggy Pop?"

This time, at least I was prepared, and did not shriek with embarrassment, deciding to just tease him right back. "Ralf, I think even Iggy Pop thinks Florian is cooler than he is."

Ralf snorted with amusement, his grin wide. "Yes, this I think is very true." But then his attention was diverted by traffic as the car finally skirted the large park at the centre of Düsseldorf, and we arrived in the flashy central shopping district. "Let me know if you see a parking spot... oh, never mind. We are in a hurry. We will use a garage. I know where there is one nearby."

We parked just down the road, and walked through the heaving streets to the Apple Store. It was strange how Ralf attracted no attention whatsoever, strolling past the fashionable shops of Düsseldorf, but as soon as we entered the Apple Store, and he removed his sunglasses, a little ripple of energy seemed to go through the place. No one stared or approached him for an autograph; oh no, the shop assistants were far too jaded and cool to do anything like that. But a sort of magnetic pulse seemed to go through the shop, staff and customers alike, as techie looking young men, especially, gawked at him, then whispered to one another.

Ralf ignored all of this, and walked through the shop as if he owned it, taking my arm gently and steering me towards the laptops. "Let me know what sort of specifications you require... I think you definitely want a laptop, and not a tablet, yes? I know Müller likes to use a tablet on the road, but she also has a desktop - in fact, I think it might just be my old desktop she nicked when I upgraded." He poked and prodded at the various models, as I stared at the prices and tried not to think about the conversion rate from Euros to Pounds, especially since Brexit had destroyed our currency's value. "Make sure you get the latest model. A really fast one with the good processors. One of these really thin ones, do you think?" He lifted it and tested its weight. "Maybe not; I would be afraid to break something so flimsy. Where is something more solid? I want something dependable for you."

Honestly, whenever I went into an Apple Store, it generally took me about twenty minutes to find any member of staff. But we had not been browsing the laptops for more than about three minutes when an actual manager appeared, almost bowing towards Ralf. >>Herr Hütter, we are honoured. How may we help you today?<< I had to suppress a smile at the unctuous use of the formal Sie.

>>Ah, yes, yes<< beamed Ralf. >>My employee requires a new laptop. You should see what she has been using - a veritable antique - I asked her to bring it so you could see the shape this thing is in.<<

>>It is only from 2008<< I protested. >>It still works just fine. As does the older one from 2003!<<

>>Ah, you are an enthusiast already<< said the manager, sizing me up.

>>My first computer was an Apple ///, in 1979<< I said proudly.

A soft, breathy snort from Ralf. >>We did not even have a computer in 1979. Florian wanted one, for the studio, but we couldn't afford it.<<

The manager coughed lightly. >>I was not even born in 1979.<<

Ralf and I exchanged bemused looks, and for the first time, I had the feeling that we were actually the same generation, compared to this tattooed twenty-something with his beard, his piercings and his fashionable architects' glasses.

>>Can I interest you in the Air? It's only a few millimetres thick, and weighs only...<<

>>Does it have ports?<< I asked, worried, looking through the specs. >>And you're probably going to try to tell me I can't have an optical drive...<< It was hard trying to talk technical specifications in German, but fortunately I had picked up a little brochure that had everything in English, German and French, so I pointed out the things that I wanted. As the manager tried to sell me on more and more special features, I suddenly felt a bit guilty. "What's the budget, Boss? I don't want to break Klingklang's bank."

Ralf brushed away such concerns with a wave of his fingertips. "Get whatever you like. It's a business expense."

It was that _business expense_ phrase that reassured me, made me think this was somehow an OK thing to be doing. After all, I would never in a million years have accepted a €2000 _gift_ from a wealthy man 20 years my senior. Alarm bells would have rung, and I would have got my defences up. But on the contrary, the purchase of a computer for work purposes somehow reassured me that the company were serious about retaining me, and that I was a valuable employee.

Ralf asked if they could do a bulk transfer of my files from my old, decrepit computer, but at that point, I said no. I could transfer whatever files I needed myself, as there was a lot of rubbish on the old one. Really, I just didn't want him finding any more embarrassing fan fiction, or worse, my caches of hundreds of jpegs. The manager went away into the back, and found a fancy new laptop matching my specifications, and Ralf produced the credit card and paid for the whole lot - on a corporate account that got him a small discount, I noticed - with a very satisfied smile.

Once we were outside, my professional computer-expect facade completely disappeared, as my inner computer geek won out, in love with my new gadget. "Thank you so much. Oh my god, this is just such an amazing upgrade. I can't believe how much more power and memory it has - annoyed I couldn't get much more disc space, but I suppose they expect you to keep everything on the Cloud these days. I guess I can buy more if I need it, but just... thank you. That was unbelievably generous of you."

Ralf merely shrugged it off. "Glad I could do something of service for my new employee." As we got back to the car, he opened the boot for me to deposit the massive box, but then smiled. "Unless, of course, you can't wait to get back to Klingklang and want to unbox it in the car?"

"I can wait," I laughed. "Anyway, I think I will need to be connected to the Internet to get it properly registered and set up the way I want it."

Ralf smirked, his eyes twinkling. "When we get back, I will show you where on the network the official Klingklang wallpapers are. You will like them - they have the robots on them."

I burst out laughing. "You just have to make sure that the wallpaper of this device has you on it, and not Florian. Is this bribery to get me to transfer my crush to you?"

He actually looked slightly piqued at that, and I realised I might have gone too far. "Put whatever photos you like on it. I don't care. I just thought you might want the same as the rest of the team."

"Ralf," I said softly. "I'm joking."

He rearranged his face into a neutral expression again. "I know you are. But I'm your boss; you should not joke about having a crush on me." 

I was about to point out that I had made the exact opposite joke, but thought better of it, and tried to make a nonchalant shrug. "Alright."

"Especially not in front of your colleagues at Klingklang," he added, but the atmosphere in the car, which had previously been easy-going and playful, abruptly felt rather tense. "Now, we have had our fun, but we shall not make such jokes again, alright." He nodded firmly, as if that sealed the matter, but he fell oddly silent, I couldn't help feeling that he was a bit funny with me for the rest of the afternoon.


	11. Stellung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate - or rather, Katrin as she is starting to be known - works her way through Ralf's diaries, trying to work out the early history of Kraftwerk. At the same time, she tries to puzzle her way through her complicated feelings for her boss, and negotiate the dance of office politics at Klingklang, which are more complicated than they initially appear.

When we got back to Klingklang, I thanked Ralf again, profusely, for the computer, but he shrugged me off and immediately went off in search of Falk to see how the new robot routine was going. But Müller jumped on me, spying the bit of tech, and insisted she was going to help me set it up. So together we sat in the 'audience' area of the rehearsal hall, as the technicians ran through the synchronised robotics and video up on the stage.

>>Ralf, should I register the Mac to her, or to Klingklang?<< called out Müller, as she fiddled with my machine.

>>To Klingklang, of course<< Ralf said, quite stiffly, and I don't know why it bothered me. Had I not thanked him profusely enough? Was this one of those gifts which came attached to strings I had not foreseen?

Wanting to somehow make things right again, I stood up and walked over to the edge of the stage. >>I'm going to the kitchen. Would you like a coffee, Ralf?<<

At this, he brightened. >>Ooh, yes, please.<<

>>Anyone else?<< Maybe everyone else took pity on me, as no one else wanted anything. I wasn't sure if this made me feel more or less like a plaything, but either way, I trotted off to try to bribe my way back into my boss's good books.

And he did actually seem more well-disposed towards me on my return, taking the coffee, then gesturing towards the chaos on the stage. "This video-synchronisation business is probably very boring for you. Why don't you go up to my office, and see if you can find anything useful for the opening chapter in my diaries? I probably won't have time for another interview until tomorrow..."

I nodded, keenly aware that I was being dismissed, but I actually was quite interested to dive into the diaries again, to see how his memories matched up with his contemporary thoughts. Extending my hand towards Müller, I said >> _My_ toy, please? << though I could tell she was loath to let it go.

I went upstairs, and arranged my new laptop on the desk, then connected the recording device to it to charge. But then just to record the moment, I took a photo of my new laptop, on my new desk in my new office. On impulse, I uploaded the photo to twitter, with a cryptically short message saying "New computer!" After all, there was nothing at al in the room to indicate that I was anywhere but a generic German office. I had been entirely silent on social media since I'd arrived in Düsseldorf, but if was worried that anyone would have missed me, I was wrong. A couple of people starred the picture, but they were the same friends who congratulated me on any new purchase, whether a guitar or a new pair of shoes. If I'd been expecting intrigue, there was none.

Losing interest, I walked through into Ralf's office. It felt rather strange being in there without him, as even without his physical presence, his aura somehow seemed to just hang about the whole room. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, but then realised, Ralf didn't actually smell of anything. I never detected the faintest scent from him, not sweat, not testosterone, not that faintly musty smell that old men sometimes had.

I looked about, wondering where the box of diaries was, but then I saw them on the floor behind the desk. Depositing my laptop on the sofa, I went over, but a sudden impulse made me sit down, in his chair, at his desk. I could feel that there was a faint depression in the leather, from where he sat, and the back seemed immediately click into a slightly more reclined position than I was used to. So Ralf had bad posture; well, that was not exactly a surprise. Relaxing in the chair a little, I looked around, cast my gaze over the desk and the computer, then ran my fingers along the underside of the desk. Yes, there was actually a button there, surrounded by a slight raised metal edge so that it could not be pressed by accident with a careless knee. It must be a panic button. A mischievous urge shook me, and I wondered what would happen if I pressed it; if the door would slam shut, and Klingklang go into lockdown, sirens blaring. I got out of the chair before I could succumb to the wicked urge, picked up the box of diaries and carried them over to the sofa.

The first thing I did on my new laptop was to install a translation app. Since the machine was registered to Klingklang and not me, any purchases I made went on the company account, which pleased me.

I could tell, I was going to have to keep a double set of notes on the diaries; the original German and a running translation. I picked up a few diaries at random, looking at the dates - 1979, 1982 - and realised they were roughly in order. Right, back to the beginning. 1965. No, too early. Or did I dare? What did nineteen year old Ralf have to tell me? I cracked it open and took a peek. He hated his father, my goodness, he thought his father was a fascist, a wretched, conservative, spineless man. Well, that was no surprise. He confessed to erotic thoughts about a waitress in a beer hall where his band often played, an attraction he thought beneath his _Stellung_ , no matter how pretty he found her blonde hair and appealingly buxom figure, and besides, she was dating a soldier literally twice his body weight. Oh, poor little baby Ralf. The more I would read his diaries, the more I would realise that Ralf was always in the grip of some crush or other, usually on some unavailable woman he invariably thought either too far above or below his _Stellung_. Because young Ralf, despite railing against his father's fascism, seemed obsessed with this idea of his 'station'. Or was I mistranslating the word 'stellung'? Position, rank or status, declared the translation tool. I almost laughed aloud. Nineteen year old Ralf was obsessed with Class, as if he had only just discovered it.

I put 1965 away, and dug until I located 1968. Turning to the last page, I could see that it was a stream of Florian dieser and Florian das, so this was the right era. And if I thought his obsession with his new friend had replaced his obsession with class, well, I noted several times that he approvingly described Florian as having or being or acting with the right _Stellung_. Whatever it was he meant by this 'station', Florian seemed to embody his ideas of it.

Flipping back to the beginning, I dropped straight into the world of architecture school. He disliked Professor L-, who he thought was a right fascist, and had terrible ideas. His crush on was F-, which threw me for a bit, until I read that F- was definitely a _sie_ , and besides, Florian was always described with his full name, which collapsed sometimes to Flori when he was pleased with him, or Flo when he was a little cross. I transcribed, and translated as I went, mostly by hand, but occasionally with the app when I could not grasp a concept, or, more usually, Ralf's spelling was imperfect.

I knew I had to keep half an eye on the time, as I did not want to miss the last tram again as one ride to Düsseldorf from Ralf was more than enough for the day. But I became engrossed in deciphering Ralf's angular scrawl. I read the page where he met Florian for the first time, over and over, trying to see if there was any indication of what was to come.

 

\---

First day at the improvisation workshop. No pretty girls on the course. Missing F- terribly. I wonder if she will write. I doubt it. The teacher seems competent, open-minded to new music, at least. Met an interesting boy in my class. Flautist. Tall, thin, very German facial type. Everyone says his father is the most successful architect in Düsseldorf. We'll see if he's any good.

\---

Improvised a bit with Florian. Plays like an absolute fiend! Very good session. Promising. No word from F-. My heart is in ruins.

\---

 

Food is absolutely terrible. Shockingly bad. Wonder if Mama can send something over. Another session with Florian; I learn more from him than from the teachers, I think. Still nothing from F-. Bereft.

\---

Very interesting conversation with Florian. He has a flute with a bit of electronics in the mouth, to amplify the signal. Says amplification of music, and electronic processing of music is not just a new development in music, but indicative of a new form of music itself. Tells me to listen to Schaeffer and Sala. I have never heard of these people, will look them up when I get home.

\---

 

I smiled to myself. So yes, his memory was accurate, right down to the electronic flute. Over the next few weeks, a romance seemed to develop between the two boys, as the entries grew longer, and Florian's place within them grew larger. His mentions of the elusive and inattentive F- grew fewer, and finally disappeared, as his obsession with the young flautist seemed to take over his life. The intensity of his crush - for there was no other word for it - dwarfed everything he had previously written about F- or T- or S- or the other girls. I found it quite sweet, to be honest, the palpable excitement of meeting another mind he respected. 

He showered Florian with small gifts, trying to win his affections; some food his mother had posted to him, a tape recording of Doors album tracks he wished him to hear. But Florian, as an incredibly wealthy young man, simply wasn't impressed by gifts. He took possessions for granted. Ralf pined. He hung on his friend's every word. And when he went back to Krefeld, he seemed to suffer greatly from the parting, until he received a telephone call from Golzheim inviting him to come and play at a party. Ralf's crush, it seemed, for the very first time, was completely requited.

He was very obviously in awe of his new friend. His playing impressed him. His band impressed him. His family impressed him. Florian's attractive younger sisters, though, turned their noses up at him. Paul, however, he was breathlessly happy to report, seemed to approve of him, which he felt improved his _Stellung_ greatly. At least, until he found out that what Paul actually approved of was the architectural degree that he was taking, and desperately wished his son to do the same. So many little details came to life, in Ralf's diary. Films they watched together, concerts they attended (he mentioned the Stockhausen concert they saw, but made only a passing allusion to "enhancements" they used) and books they discussed. And yet it only opened up more questions for me.

Ralf went back to University, and his mania for Florian cooled slightly, but he seemed constantly to be back in Düsseldorf every chance he got, staying over at the villa in Golzheim. They played for great six to eight hour stretches, and even performed gigs, but Ralf mentioned no other musicians, except for the occasional aside about a bassist or a drummer. Florian acquired a girlfriend, and I could almost feel Ralf's irritation through the page, refusing to grant her even an initial, let alone a name. as she was only ever 'that girl of Flori's'. I wondered if Ralf had romances of his own. He certainly nursed crushes, but they never seemed to develop further. Maybe between school and the band, he just didn't have time.

Speaking of time, I glanced at the clock on my laptop, and saw it was getting late. I looked up, to confirm the correct time on Ralf's walk clock, and almost jumped, startled, when I saw him sitting quietly at his desk.

"How long have you been there?"

"Not long. Maybe twenty minutes."

"Why didn't you say something?"

Ralf smiled, peering over the top of the chunky black-framed glasses he used at the computer. "You seemed engrossed. I didn't want to disturb you."

I stared at him, feeling this strange double-consciousness; the 20 year old architecture student still burning in this diary, while the 70 year old paterfamilias of Klingklang sat across the desk, smiling down at me. I wondered if the pair of them would even recognise each other. But as I looked at him, I saw both people in his face, especially with the reading glasses, which seemed to echo his youthful presentation. Their smiles were the same, that same shy, hesitant little-boy smile, creasing the cleft in his chin into a deep fold.

But Ralf seemed to notice my staring. "Why are you looking at me like that? What have you read?"

"Nothing," I lied, still feeling this palpable loneliness in the diary, and how it was slowly replaced by his single-minded devotion for Florian. "I was just thinking I like those glasses on you. They suit you; you look good."

He smiled and blushed slightly, shrugging off his embarrassment, as the compliment seemed to please him. "My wife thinks they make me look like Gymnasium science teacher."

"And this is a bad thing how?" As he beamed, I started to pack up my things. "I need to go. I don't want to miss the last tram again. Can I leave these here, or should I put them away behind the desk?"

He made an expansive gesture with his hand. "Leave them. No one will disturb them. We start our interview again tomorrow, around noon, yes?"

"Yes. See you then. Good night, Boss."

"Good night, Katrin."

 

\----------

 

Late at night, I was tormented by strange dreams. I was wandering through an Apple Store with a broken iPhone, trying to get someone to replace my memories. Everything was stored on there, the diaries, the transcripts, the rough drafts, and yet every time I saved my research to the phone's hard drive, memories seemed to disappear from my own life, replaced by Ralf's memories. Photos of my Mum, gone, replaced by a small, round blonde German woman with a very pointed nose and chin. Photos of my flat, of London, replaced by photos of Krefeld, of Aachen. My iTunes, my Factory Floor albums, my Kaitlin Aurelia Smith replaced by Mendelssohn and The Doors. But no one would help me with the malfunctioning device; they were all busy with some very important client on the other side of the shop, whose mere presence seemed to tug all the sales assistants towards him, like iron filings towards a magnet.

I woke up, and fired off a quick email to my Mum in America, realising I had not even filled her in on how the move had gone. I had kept the details deliberately sketchy, saying only that I was going to Germany to work for a tech company on a six-month contract to see if I liked it. She had fussed, but my Mum always fussed, and when I told her I was hanging onto my London flat by subletting it, she seemed to calm down a bit. So I told her a bit more, saying I liked the office, my boss seemed nice, and that I had already made a nice friend at work. Then I asked her if the election news was true, and if she had any reactions to it? I was tempted to hang about, waiting for her reply as I read the news about reactions to the American election and the scandals that were dogging it, but it would be six hours before she even read the email.

After my now-habitual daily Rhinewalk, I ate breakfast, then did a little more emailing and social media, updating a few close friends with my new address in Düsseldorf, though I kept my details spare. Then I did some diary-updating of my own, writing down the details of the strange dream, though honestly, I did not have to think hard to interpret it. I wrote down my impressions of "R-" though it was hard to puzzle through my feelings about him. I was, still, very much in awe of him. I hadn't lied; I mean, obviously I was not afraid of him. But I was perhaps still overly awed by him.

Was I attracted to him? That was more complicated. Now, obviously he was still a very handsome man, and even at 70, he still exerted a rather powerful sort of attraction. He was photogenic, yes, but really it was the liveliness of his face that made him so appealing. He just looked bright and intelligent. But Christ, he was my boss. Then again, perhaps that was part of the appeal. His power was a little intoxicating, the idea that he could just snap his fingers and a new Mac would appear on my desk, or else I and the entire studio would just be whisked off to Mexico. That kind of power was, in a weird way, very sexy. There was some kind of understated implication that he could _take care of_ me. I wanted to impress him, I wanted to appeal to him. And when I flirted with him - which I realised with a shock, I was quite deliberately doing - it was because I wanted him to notice me. In fact, kind of wanted him to desire me, and tell me again, how for a "chubby" woman, I had a very sexy smile.

And yet I knew this was a stupidly dangerous thing to be feeling. If I acted on this in any way, I would be out on my ear. He could fire me for even thinking about it, as he had made clear with that harsh comment about not even joking about having a crush on him. And yet, to be honest, that danger was part of the appeal. I closed the diary and put it away at the very bottom of suitcase, between the inner and outer lining where a rip had made a little secret compartment. I mean, honestly, who on earth was going to read it - Karlheinz? And yet still I felt compelled to hide it.

I took the 10.30 tram to be at the office by 11. This rhythm was starting to suit me as I liked having the morning free, and yet I liked to get there early, to have an hour to drink tea and gossip with Müller and catch up on the various goings-on of the studio. The studio was like any other office, with its little intrigues and politics. Müller loved gathering these intrigues like an antenna, and took great pride in explaining the secret meanings behind them.

That business with the robots yesterday, she explained as we sat on the little sun-roof outside the kitchen, as she vaped and I drank my tea. Well, that was complicated. The robots were not technically Falk's responsibility; they had their own technicians who were supposed to look after them. And anyway, Ralf had already decided that the robots would not be going to Mexico with the band, since they were expensive to ship. They were not needed until the following year. So the fiddling with the robots, this was just for show. Fritz and Henning had started to think that perhaps Falk, the new boy, who was least sure of his position, as he knew he was the third man to hold it in a few years, was a bit of a brown-noser when it came to Ralf. He was always trying to impress Ralf, and make friends with Ralf, in a way that the older band members had given up trying to, long ago. And they were suspicious that this business with the robots was another way of trying to get in good with the boss.

But as she said this, I felt a slight chill. >>Do they think that... this is what I am doing?<<

>>No, of course not<< shrugged Müller. >>Anyway, it's different. You're a girl.<<

>>What's that supposed to mean?<< I bristled.

>>Come on. Ralf is not immune to the charms of the ladies.<<

>>What?<< I sputtered.

>>And women are in short supply around here<< she ploughed on, ignoring my protests. >>You may have noticed that this place is crawling with men of the super-geeky and not very socially competent type. Men who would never usually have the opportunity to even mix with women, were they not associated with this rather cool band and studio. The gender ratio here is, what? 15 to 3?  Gudrun's married - to the manager, no less - everyone knows I play for the other team, and you? Well, you are currently the object of speculation.<<

>>Speculation of... how dare they!<< My mind reeled with this whole load of sudden new knowledge. I wasn't sure which surprised me more. Müller was gay? Well, no, actually that didn't surprise me at all. I supposed I had known since the first time I saw her - overalls, leather jacket and doc martens? - yeah, that was a bit of a giveaway. But Gudrun and Günter? They didn't act like they were married. But it put yet another slant on the organisation, as some kind of family-run business.

>>No, cool it. Don't get excited. I know you're not having an affair with old Hütter. But even I can see that Hütter is keeping you very close - I'm guessing as a kind of protection against some of the more hormonal monkeys down on the touring crew. The soundman? Pervert; don't go near him. Don't tell him I said that, but he is. But they won't pester you if they think you're the boss's girl. That's what I meant. It's understandable, why you would stick close to him.<<

>>I... I am not...<< I started to protest, but then relented. Even I had to admit it was complicated. >>Well, you see... Look. Ralf _is_ a really attractive guy, he is very sexy, for someone his age, but... <<

>>What?<< laughed Müller. >>Ralf? Attractive? God in heaven, if you say so. I tell you, I will never understand straight girls in a million years. That old prune, Hütter? For real?<<

>>First off, knock it off with the 'straight', OK? It's more complicated than that.<<

>>Oh my god<< mocked Müller, pretending to fan herself. >>Is my gaydar wack or what? Why do I always have this nose for the bi girls? Always! It's like I got a fucking bi-dar or something.<<

>>Shut up<< I laughed, thumping her on the arm.

She nudged back. >>Well, I should have known, I guess... you do dress like a _Butch_ << she teased, picking playfully at the cuff of my black leather motorcycle jacket. It wasn't really appropriate for the colder German winter, and I would soon have to find something warmer.

>>Thank you I prefer _Genderqueer_ << I shot back.

"Genderqueer?" repeated Müller, rolling the unfamiliar English word over her tongue. >>English words are so comical<< she said, before trying another one. >>Like... _Tomboy_ << she pronounced. >>What is that one about?<<

>>I don't know<< I confessed. >>Never understood that one.<<

"Tomboyish," said Müller again, her voice taking on a sing-song, gossipy tone as she raised one eyebrow. >>Hütter is always calling me _Tomboyish_. You know, I think Hütter likes tomboyish women. Have you seen his wife? She wears her hair short, like a slim, blonde schoolboy. Always in no-nonsense clothing, very practical, very East German. He's always teasing me about my hair, but... really? I think he likes the way I dress. You never know. Maybe he's got a thing. He might be into it. Maybe he is secretly into you. << She elbowed me as she said this, and winked so salaciously that I felt my whole face flushing.

>>Müller!<< I almost shrieked, pulling away from her, alarmed.

She opened her eyes quite wide, and stared back at me. >>My god, you are actually blushing. I was just teasing, but... Did I hit a nerve there?<<

>>Stop it<< I insisted, pushing her away with my elbow.

She elbowed me right back, the mischievous expression coming into her eyes again. >>Old Hütter. Really? With his wrinkly cock, and his knobbly old cyclist's legs? That said, he shaves, you know. And he does have a really good pair of gams.<<

>>Oh, piss off, Müller, I was trying to say that although I can see he is an attractive, rock star sort of guy, but I am _not_ interested in getting in good with the boss in that kind of way. Your mind really is in the pipe. <<

>>The pipe? The pipe? Arrrrrr I bet you want to lay the pipe<< laughed Müller, as I realised I had accidentally substituted a salacious German pun.

>>The... how do you say... a pipe where the dirty water runs out.<<

>>A sewer<< she corrected.

>>That's what your mind is.<<

>>Yes and proud of it<< she cackled as she fired up her vape stick again.>>Would you really fuck him, though? If he wasn't your boss... and he wasn't married?<<

>>What, Ralf in 1973, with long hair and leather trousers, or Ralf now?<< I could not believe I was having this conversation with Müller, knowing full well that whatever I said, it would go right round the studio before the end of the day, but without social media, I was starved for this sort of girl-chat.

Müller started to cackle again. >>Oh god, heterosexuality is _so_ weird. <<

>>No, he looked good in 1973 - with the long hair, the glasses, the tight leather trousers, he looked really feminine. Girlish, even. You'd think he was a _Butch_ , with those fetishy trousers and that nail varnish.<<

>>Nail varnish?<<

>>Did I use the right word? Paint, for your fingers.<< I mimed painting nails.

>>Yes, you used the right word. But him, upstairs? Nail varnish? I gotta see this. I had no idea.<<

I pulled out my iPhone and started digging through my photos. Müller stared in mixed fascination and horror as I scrolled past dozens of Kraftwerk photos. >>Girlfriend, you got a problem. Does he know about this?<<

>>Yeah, a little...<< I squirmed, but then dialled up the back cover of the Ralf und Florian album, so she could see.

>>Oh, that's Flo all right. He hasn't changed a bit, except he has a little less hair now. And oh, hey, wait, that is the old Klingklang. Wow, I had forgotten how small it was. How did they ever fit all of this stuff in there? But wait... that's Ralf? Our Ralf?<< She zoomed in, examining his white shoes, his long hair, the tips of his fingers where his nails glinted in the neon light. >>Is that a joint? Oh my god, he is _fanatical_ about no smoking, and about no drugs in the studio, and... Oh, he is not going to hear the end of this... <<

I took my phone back and dialled up another photo, this one a close-up of Ralf in leather trousers, and handed it back to her.

Müller actually burst out cackling. >>That is... wow, that is... I can almost see your point. He was _pretty_ , with the long hair. But no! Oh god! Then I remember it's Hütter, and just... Oh my god, I need brain cleaner. It's like having lewd thoughts about your _Dad_. <<

Below us, I saw the charcoal-coloured compact Mercedes turn into the parking lot, so I took back my phone, and patted her lightly on the shoulder by way of goodbye. >>Gotta go. You know Der Chef will blow a gasket if I don't have everything prepared for him.<<

>>Don't let him push you around so much, Kate<< Müller called back. >>He won't actually die of it, if everything is not actually perfect. Don't let him ride you too hard.<<

I turned and threw a wink at her. >>Who says he rides me too hard? And you know what? Maybe I like it!<< I turned and made my way upstairs to prepare for the interview, savouring the memory of the slightly shocked expression on her face.


	12. Overstepping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More interviews between Ralf and Katrin, as she tries to work out what the shape of the book will be; score-settling or fan-pleasing.

But the photos, unfortunately, had unsettled me, too. Working every day at Klingklang, I had not had the time to leaf through Tumblr or the old jpegs on my laptop. I had grown used to Ralf as a jolly, almost grandfatherly old man. Seeing him again as a long-haired, androgynous young musician, that roiled me in a way I couldn't quite explain, let alone justify. I was finding it hard enough to reconcile fandom and being an employee as it was. I didn't need to be reminded of Ralf in his prime, as a pouting young sex symbol in skin-tight leather clothes.

But the grandfatherly Ralf of today was in a faintly forbearing mood when he finally arrived, his smile belying the stern look he was trying to give me. "Katrin, what did you show Müller?"

"Oh, I'm going to kill her," I giggled, flushing slightly pink at the thought of what she might have told him. "I just... I'm sorry, I just showed her some photos of you in your more... androgynous days. She honestly hadn't seen them, so... Well, I didn't see any harm in them. They're all on the internet, anyway."

"And what did you do that for?" He seemed a little perplexed and really rather amused, rather than angry.

"I just wanted to show her... oh, never mind," I felt my face flushing a brighter red. "Girls do stupid things sometimes, don't bother asking why, you do not want to know. Please, forgive the error, if it was overstepping."

"It was not overstepping, not at all. I just wanted to know why..." I looked away, almost purple with embarrassment, unable to meet his eyes, and I suppose my face must have told him something, for he stopped speaking, just standing and observing me very closely for a few moments. Then he let out a couple of his breathy little laughs, smiling to himself as he shuffled off behind his desk. "So. Do you have more questions for me today, or do you just want me to free associate for you again? Perhaps I should even lie down on the couch, and tell you about my dreams, eh?"

"If you like," I shrugged, refusing to rise to his baiting as I dug out my recorder and placed it on the desk between us. "Wouldn't that be a coup for this book - what does the great Ralf Hütter dream about? Electric Sheep?"

This tickled him greatly, as he chuckled to himself, clearing a space on his desk. "Cycling," he supplied. "I often dream of cycling. And of course those dreams that everyone has where one is missing a train." I don't know why, but I always expected that Ralf would keep his desk minimalist and as neat as a pin, but it was actually fairly untidy, the papers we had been discussing the previous day still spread all over it. "In these dreams, I am trying to get to Klingklang - usually the old Klingklang on Mintropstrasse - but none of the trams will go in the correct direction, or there's a diversion, and I end up getting turned around and going down the wrong way from the Hauptbahnhof. I'm sorry; I have very boring dreams. Cycles, trains and Klingklang, what did you expect?"

"Well," I said, turning the recorder on and hiding it under my scarf again. "Tell me about the original Klingklang. What did you think when you first saw it? And how did you find it?"

"Florian found it," Ralf supplied, leaning back and folding his hands behind his head. "Florian was always good at that sort of thing. He knew all sorts of people, through his father's business. If we needed anything, a mechanic, a property agent, Florian was always very good at winkling people out. When he showed me, I thought... well, mostly I thought 'what a relief, here is a place where we can make as much of a racket as we like.' It was very freeing, to be able to work, night or day. We were such nocturnal creatures then. We liked the dark; night was our natural home. It was close to the station, which meant no one could complain about the noise... and it was easy for me to get back and forth."

"Did it feel like home straight away, or did it take a while to get used to it? It seems like you were always working on it, upgrading the equipment."

"Oh yes, we were always working on it, always changing it. It took us years to get it the way we liked it. But it was home, right from the start. To feel comfortable, to feel at home, is important to be able to create. At first, we tried going away to other people's studios to record, and it never felt right. One always feels so shy, so reserved, like a visitor, in other people's workspaces. One is never able to relax, in the way one needs to be able to enter that state of total focus to work."

"That state of Einssein you talked about," I probed. "Did you need to feel at one with the space, in order to feel at one with the music?"

"Yes, precisely," he said, tapping his desk with the palm of his hand, looking delighted that I had remembered. "To be truly at one with the music requires a physical state of being completely comfortable with one's surroundings. Not to be distracted by... by neighbours, by doorbells, by ringing telephones, someone telling you your time is up, such distractions. To be secluded in our work was so important. I do not think I can emphasise enough how important that space was, for us. We always treated our studio as, you know, the studio is the whole instrument. It was never just a collection of instruments in a room. The whole thing combines together to make our music. Like a laboratory is such much more than just a collection of test tubes. We realised that very early on, that we needed this space, and the freedom it allowed us. We worked on the studio, and changed it, and made it what we wanted and what we needed. But it also made us, in a way. There would never have been a Kraftwerk without a Klingklang. We made it; it made us. Man, and studio, working together... it is the man-machine interface again, even in our earliest days, do you see?" He smiled brightly, his eyes twinkling, wanting to make sure I caught his little joke.

We fell to talking, again, about those early days. He was in a good mood, and seemed happy to comb through these old memories. Their apprenticeship, he called it. After the initial flush of success from Ruckzuck, and yet before they finally found their feet with Autobahn. Florian disliked even recalling the whole period to mind, he told me. Florian was the one who wanted to completely scrap the past, but Ralf himself felt more than faintly nostalgic about those early, experimental records. 

I nodded, as he seemed to drift off into memories. "The process of becoming is, sometimes, just as interesting, if not more interesting, than the final shape it becomes. I love those early records where you can hear the band, literally _becoming_. That's why Ralf und Florian is probably one of my personal favourites."

Ralf brightened, as if surfacing out of his meditative daze. "Yes, you wrote about Tanzmusik, didn't you?" he mused. "The first Kraftwerk song that sounds like Kraftwerk. I think you're right about that. It was an experiment, but it was an experiment that showed us turning into ourselves. I'm glad that we had the freedom to do all that experimentation. I don't think young bands are allowed this freedom, any more. They are not given the time to develop, as you say, to _become_. We had all the time we needed. We had a little bit of attention, enough to keep us focused, but it was good to be left alone, to get on with the process of becoming."

I brought him back to the subject of working in other people's space, and probed a little about the role of Conny Plank, but almost immediately he turned withdrawn and a little cold. It was odd. He would never actually refuse to answer a question, but I could see his body language grow more tense, crossing his legs and folding his arms, or covering his lips completely with one hand, rather than just tapping at them.

Conny, I could see, was clearly a sore spot, and he resented being accused of having somehow done him wrong. "We worked with many different people, in those early days. How many names have I mentioned in the past hour? Klaus, Charley, Eberhard, Michael... people were in and out of our studio all of the time. They came to our studio; sometimes we even went to other people's studios. We even went down to Köln to play at Can's studio once or twice, you know. We enjoyed collaborating for a time, but ultimately, Florian and I... what was your phrase? We kept ourselves to ourselves. But once you have had a very great success, like we had in America, with Autobahn, suddenly everyone wants a piece of this. Conny, and the two of us, we had reached the end of our working relationship. It had become apparent, that we were developing quite different aesthetics. We wanted to do things our way, not Conny's way. Kraftwerk's apprenticeship was over. It was time to become... oh what is the middle stage of training process, in English?"

"Journeymen," I supplied.

"Yes, this is a very good word. You learn your craft, as apprentices, then you have to go out yourselves and see what you can do with it. This is precisely what we did. We paid Conny for his services - he took our money gratefully when we were just a little nobody German band no one cared about. Then we have our success - success which brought him a great deal of business, as you see - and now he, too, wanted a piece of it. If we had gone off and done nothing further, he might have had a point. Or if we had stayed at the same place, and made the same record over and over, never progressing, then sure, I could see how people might think we were Conny's protégés and nothing more. But we went far further without him than we had gone, to that point, with him. I do not see what the complaints were about."

"Well, the allegations were that he was entitled to a percent..." I almost mumbled, feeling like a cad for bringing it up.

"If that had been the case, it would have been on the recording contract. I assure you, it was not. Before we went to America, we simply had no idea how much money would be involved. We paid him what we all agreed was fair. Then, afterwards, when we had done all the work of touring, and talking to the Americans, doing deals and so forth, then he decided he was entitled to a little more. This petty Düsseldorf jealousy, you see. You cannot have the tiniest bit of success, that someone does not want to take it away from you. That psychopath, Flür, it was the same with him. Always trying to play for more money, more credit for things that were not his. I mean, yes, I think in many ways, it was good for us, to come home to Düsseldorf. It took us down a peg, it stopped us from getting big heads and becoming egotistical. We saw the damage this did to other artists, like David Bowie, like Michael Jackson. This was a fate we were glad to avoid, by holing up in our snobbish little hometown. But in other ways, it can become a very destructive and negative environment, when people become envious. This is why we had to remove so many of these negative influences, from our lives...."

Ralf was on the edge of getting really worked up indeed, and it seemed quite uncharacteristic of him to get quite so personal. But abruptly, he seemed to pull himself together and straighten up, rattling his coffee cup as if disappointed that it was empty.

"More coffee?" I offered.

"Yes please." When I returned, he had calmed himself, and seemed almost embarrassed by his outburst. "I am telling you these things, because I want you to know the truth, Katrin. But you must put none of this in my book. It is always better to maintain a dignified silence on such matters. If people lie, or if they cheat, then this is what the courts are for. But books are not for score-settling." He nodded as if that settled it, then took a soothing sip of coffee.

"Can I maybe sugar-coat it?" I suggested. "Obviously, you are very hurt by these insinuations, so you speak a little sharper than would be diplomatic. But setting the record straight, when people have spread gossip about you, this is something you can justifiably do."

Ralf tapped his lips thoughtfully. "Well. I will leave it to your discretion. But if I am not happy with what you have written, we can edit it out."

It was a command, not a request, but I decided to push back a little. "We can discuss it, and come to an agreement on how to edit anything you like."

"Yes," He agreed with a sharp little nod of his chin. But then he bent down to dig in his backpack, still at his feet. "Which reminds me. Last night, after you left, I printed out your transcript, and I made some notes of what I wanted you to change. Some things to take out, some things to expand on. I trust this is alright with you?"

I suppressed a smile. "It's a first draft, not a transcript. But yes, I certainly expected you to do so, in fact this is very helpful. But let's finish this part of the interview first, while you're fresh. And then come back to the edits later."

He nodded, but then pulled back his cuff to check on the time. "Yes, but I must keep an eye on the time. It is Thursday, which means it is Papa's turn to do the pick-up from pony club."

"Of course," I said. "Let me know when you need to go."

"Well, you can go off and have lunch. It will only take an hour or so, then I will come back, and we will go through the edits in the evening, yes?"

We went through another few hours of questions for the interview. It turned out that the hour's break for him to pick up his daughter was a good idea, because I managed to read through his responses while I nibbled at a sandwich. As I ate, I jotted down a few points for discussion and clarification. Most of the changes I agreed to, as for the most part, he made amendments, as if his memory had been jogged by the exercise of re-reading his own experiences. But there was one redaction I knew I needed to push him on. It wasn't even the family stuff that bothered him. Apparently, now they were both dead, he didn't mind describing his parents and his grandparents so much. But it was my characterisation of him at school - extremely diligent scholar, but does not play well with others - that he particularly wished to remove.

"Well, tell me what you were like at school, then," I urged, going through our little ritual with the tape recorder again.

"Hmmm. Well, you are right. I was very shy, and I did not have many friends. My sister was far more popular than I. I wasn't bullied or anything like that; I just kept myself to myself." He absolutely loved that phrase. "But I don't see why it is necessary to include this detail. If you want to include my scholastic record, well, fair enough. I got very good grades, especially languages and maths. But what does it matter, if I had many chums at school, or not?"

I bit my lip, looked down at the desk, and tried to put it into words. "You know, Ralf, that this book isn't just for you, it's for your fans, and your future fans, too."

"What concern of theirs is it, if I went home for lunch, rather than face sitting in the lunchroom alone?" Ralf's face was so defiant that I realised some scars never, ever completely healed, no matter how old one became.

"You know, the kind of people who become super-fans... not just the kind of people who buy the records or go to the shows, but the kind of fans who will buy this book, and memorise every word of it... Lots of us turned to music because we had lonely childhoods, difficult times, no friends. To read that someone admirable and important, like you, went through that, too, and not just overcame it, but turned it into something beautiful, through your art... I don't know. That kind of thing is important for young music fans to read. Old ones, too. It makes you feel less alone. And isn't that the point of music; to make you feel less alone?"

Ralf chewed his lip as he thought this over. This, I could already tell, was going to be the hard part of this job. To convince Ralf to allow himself to be vulnerable and open enough to let his fans identify with him. "But our fans, they don't want a lonely little boy that everyone thinks is too intense and too strange and has too many odd obsessions, to even sit in a cafeteria with. They want Mister Robot. Mister Kraftwerk. Cold, unfeeling, without emotion. A robot cannot be hurt, because a robot cannot feel pain. I have known our fans for a very long time. They don't want to see behind the mask. They like the mask. They identify with the mask."

"Well, why do you think they identify with the mask? For the same reason you do. Because it's a way to cover up the lonely little boy inside. I am starting to know you, and already I can see. You're not a robot, cold and unemotional. Sometimes you're excitable and enthusiastic, and very, very funny. Sometimes you're like the stern but proud Papa of Klingklang, telling Müller to get her feet off the seats or encouraging Falk in his new animations. You've built your little enclave here. And I've been here a week, and I haven't once seen you eat lunch alone. You go down to get your avocado and humus sandwich, and someone always comes out to talk to you and ask you something. So I do think the child is the father of the man, and I do think that you've built your little gang of autistic geniuses at Klingklang to make up for not having one at school."

Lowering his chin, and staring across at me evenly, Ralf's face slowly started to twitch into a smile, and then he let out a whole series of those breathy little laughs. "Well, thank you Doctor Freud. Shall I lie down on the couch, now, and tell you my dreams? These are pseudo-psychological platitudes, and I do not wish to insult my fans by including them."

"But this stuff is important," I protested, feeling my ego stinging from his admonishment. "It's the kind of background that people will expect to know."

"Well, find a less clichéd way of expressing it," Ralf said with a little nod that meant the subject was closed.

I made a note on the print-out, but unwillingly moved on to the next point. We carried on working and talking, right up until fifteen minutes before the last tram was due to leave. As I gathered up my papers, and put my new laptop into its special foam bag, Ralf looked slightly put out at the interruption, as he had been holding forth on one of his favourite subjects. He had been talking again, about Klingklang, expanding on their early experiments with automation, and about the symbiotic relationship between machine and musician, a theme he returned to again and again.

"It's such a shame you are constrained by the Rheinbahn," he grumbled. "Really, you should avail yourself of the German cycle-purchase scheme, and buy a bicycle. That way, you could come and go as you liked, at any time of the day or night, and not worry about missing the last tram."

"I don't have the money to buy a bicycle," I hedged.

"Well, no, this is the point. It's funded by the government. They buy the bike, and you pay them back from your future earnings - tax free, of course. Everyone at Klingklang cycles. It's just easier. You will see."

"Oh god, I still have to set up the whole tax thing. And I'll need to get a German bank account, won't I. God, it's so complicated, please don't make start to think about bicycles, on top of all that."

Ralf brightened. "Speak to Gudrun, on Monday. I presume you will be transcribing tomorrow? But yes, make sure you speak to Gudrun on Monday morning, and she will explain it all."

"Sorry, Ralf, I really have to run..."

I made it with less than a minute to spare, arriving on the platform just as the tram pulled in, then throwing myself into the corner seat right at the front of the carriage, where I could watch the headlamp sweep through the night.

The next morning, after breakfast and my usual constitutional, as I sat down to work, there was an email from Ralf, reiterating my need for a company bicycle, with several links to the relevant websites on the North Rhine-Westfalia government websites (in heavy-going bureaucratic German, of course) explaining how the cycle-scheme worked, and why it was such a good idea.

Feeling somewhat safer in contradicting him, when I didn't have to look into those penetrating blue eyes, I wrote back and told him I had no intention of buying a bicycle. Bicycles were expensive, I couldn't really ride, and anyway, I was only in Germany for 6 months, so it would be one more thing I would have to dispose of, if and when I moved back to Britain.

Ralf emailed back saying, but one never forgets how to ride a bicycle. It was the quintessential muscle memory technique that one never truly forgot.

'I forgot,' I replied tersely.

'We'll see about that!' Ralf replied. Even his little exclamation point annoyed me.

'I'm going offline for a few hours, I need to work now,' I informed him dryly, and logged off.

I closed my email window, and opened up the transcription document, getting out my earbuds to plug into the recorder, so Ralf's voice didn't disturb Karlheinz. But no sooner had I buckled down to work, than my phone rattled, to indicate I'd received a text message. I tried to carry on typing, but it was no good. The phone pinged again, and I knew if I didn't get up to check it, my concentration would be gone.

It was a text message from Ralf. 'How about this one?' with a photo of a sleek black road bike.

'Stop it. I'm trying to transcribe, and I need my full concentration for this,' I texted back, beginning to get a little bored of this game.

'Alright, what about this one? A nice girl's bike. How can you say no to such a beauty.' Another photo, this one of a dark green touring bike with a wicker basket for shopping on the front. I stared at my phone, a little disbelievingly. Was this Ralf, _our_ Ralf, who railed against mobile phones as anti-social brain-rotters, bombarding me with text messages on a Friday afternoon?

'I'm turning off my phone now. I'll see you at work on Monday.'


	13. The Bicycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf has ideas about Klingklang employees, and working at Klingklang means one must cycle to work. Even if he has to teach his new employee, himself.

I ended up working all through the weekend, surprised by the sheer amount of interview material that I had got off Ralf. Besides, it wasn't as if I had much else to do. I knew hardly a soul in Düsseldorf, and it felt odd dodging through the crowded streets of the Altstadt going to and from the shops, all on my own as the football crowds and stag parties drank and bellowed their songs. On Saturday night, I considered emailing Müller to see if she had any suggestions for interesting places to hang out, but then thought that seemed so much like begging her to come out with me for a drink that I just didn't want her to know I was that pathetic. When I could concentrate no more on typing, I wandered up to the Kunsthalle to see if the fabled electronic music night was happening in their lounge, but it was still too early and apparently nothing in Germany kicked off much before midnight. I had one bottle of beer, feeling very ignored by the young hipsters posing by the DJ booth, then went home.

On Sunday, I took the laptop and went and sat in a cafe in a park. It was a clear, bright day, not too cold, and it was pleasant to sit in the sun to bash Ralf's wandering memories into a cohesive narrative. Fortunately, there were no more texts about bicycles, though my Mum did send me a Skype request. I moved closer to the Apple Store to leech off their broadband, and chatted with my Mum, trying to talk through all my confusing impressions of Germany, though I did my best not to mention my conflicting feelings about my boss.

It was the first job I had ever had in my life, where I actually longed for Sunday evening to be over so I could be on the tram back to Meerbusch, to throw myself back into the fascinating beehive of Klingklang.

On Monday morning, I actually turned up early, brimming with enthusiasm, mostly because I wanted to talk to Gudrun. Not about the bike, but about something else that Ralf had reminded me: I had given her the details of my British bank account, but I realised something important. If they paid me in Euros, I would be penalised twice, as it was converted from Euros into Pounds for the payment, and then again, if I withdrew funds in Germany. With Brexit looming and the pound sinking, really I needed a German bank account to hoard my now-valuable Euros.

Indeed, Gudrun was very helpful on this matter. She told me that I would need my passport, obviously, a letter of employment from my workplace - which she would be happy to provide - and a letter from my landlord. I thanked her for her advice, took the letter, and even took some advice on which bank to get an account with, as she suggested I might get paid quicker if I used the same bank the company did.

Then I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, but since Müller was not about, I took it upstairs. Settling down on Ralf's sofa, I dug into the diaries, translating until Ralf got in, a few hours later. When he arrived, I uploaded my new drafts to his folder, and he printed them out and read them as I continued to work on the diaries.

"This is much better," he pronounced, clearly pleased, as he beamed at me over the top of his glasses. "This is coming along nicely; I am excited now to read chapter two."

We worked together well, as he went through my manuscript with a black gel pen until we broke for "lunch" (a very late lunch; more like teatime, to me). Then in the evening, we carried on with another interview, clarifying points he wanted to make about the first two chapters, before getting diverted into another digression. When Ralf got going, he could really hold forth, and tonight he wanted to talk about the perfect tempo for dancing.

"They make the tempos too fast, these days," he complained. "They push them up, 140, even 150 beats a minute. This is too fast, it tires the dancers. This is why people turn to drugs to fuel their dancing. In my day, we barely even drank. We did not need to. The dance tempo, it was about 120 to 130 beats per minute. That is where the magic happens. It is a heart-rate tempo, the walking tempo, the tempo of making love. If once dances at this tempo, one can dance all night, without needing chemical enhancement..."

"Ralf..." I had to interrupt, looking at my watch. We had been chatting for five hours. "Ralf, I'm very sorry, but it is tram tempo time, for me. I'm going to have to pack up."

Ralf frowned. "Again? So soon? This really is most annoying. Have you spoken to Gudrun about the cycle purchase scheme? We really do need to be free to work without these interruptions from the Rheinbahn."

"I've spoken to Gudrun, but I am not eligible to do the Cycle Purchase Scheme, because I do not have a German bank account. Look, now, Ralf, I'm sorry, but I do have to go..." As he spoke, I collected my things, shoved them into my bag, and was almost out the door as he continued to speak.

"Well, we will get you a bank account, then."

"It will take time to set up... Gute Nacht, Ralf!"

"I will think of something, for the intervening time," Ralf called after me, as I darted out of the corridor and down the steps.

On Tuesday, while I stayed at home to transcribe and write, another text message pinged on my phone: 'Katrin, I have come up with a solution!' 

Again, with the exclamation points. I didn't know why those exclamation points irritated me so much; in my head I could almost see him punctuating his words with those impertinent arches of his eyebrows.

Gritting my teeth, I typed back 'Ralf, I'm sorry but I'm almost out of credit. I'm not going to text again unless it's an emergency. Email, please.'

It was much easier to disconnect my computer from the internet, ignore his emails and get down to work. And suddenly, I stopped, staring at my laptop until I burst out laughing. Two weeks, it had taken. Just two weeks. Only a month ago, that display line of RALF HÜTTER in my email inbox had left me weak in the knees, almost too nervous to read, let alone respond. Now it felt like just another annoying message from a boss I needed to ignore in order to get on with my work.

Relenting somewhat, I logged onto the WLAN and opened up my email. "I'm sorry, Ralf, I didn't mean to be curt. I did not realise how expensive PAYG texts were, and I've got to save my last few euros for an emergency. What is your solution?

"No, no," the email came back a few minutes later. "I do not want to spoil the surprise. I will see you tomorrow."

I stared at the email for a few minutes, thought 'what an infuriating man' then sighed and closed the window, returning to work. It was raining lightly outside, so I could not work on my balcony, but Karlheinz was out all day on Tuesdays, so I set up my laptop in the big oriole window in the front room, looking out over the roofs of Düsseldorf as I wrote. It helped me, I thought, to gaze at Germany, as I tried to edit Ralf's ponderous sentence constructions into light, freely flowing English, while still preserving his distinctive tics and foibles. It took several hours to build up only a few paragraphs - punctuated by Karlheinz coming home and wanting to know what I was doing, sitting there in the dark, with my glowing screen, was I trying to ruin my eyes - but I somehow managed to capture something like the odd cadences of his speech.

Really, to get it exact, I wished I could somehow represent his accent, without reducing him to a comical German stereotype, as his voice really was one of the most charming things about him, still rather high and boyish, and more than a little sexy, especially all intimate and cosy in my ear. I swear, after a long day of transcription, I sometimes dreamed that Ralf was still speaking into my earpiece. Though in dreams, he was not nearly as annoying as he was in the flesh. In dreams, he was solemn and remote, as slow and steady as the voice of God. In the flesh, that calm, soothing voice ever so often delivered little compliments, and tiny bits of flirtation, so as to make me squirm and curl up a little inside, even as I tried to stay professional on the exterior.

Really, I wished I could just hold onto that feeling as I wrote, this cosy feeling of special closeness to Ralf. I knew I wrote better when I felt half in love with him, propelling the prose along with my enthusiasm for him. When I felt irritated with him, the prose clogged and congealed, and never came out right. If only he could just stop being so irritating. Or, if only I could learn to see those irritations as part of his charms.

I always did my best writing early in the morning, just after I'd woken up. Perhaps dream-Ralf whispering in my dream-earbuds delivered exactly the right phrasing, while I slept. But I woke early, just as the sun was starting to redden the corners of the sky, and the perfect paragraphs just popped into my head. Writing it down didn't feel like writing; it felt more like transcribing, as if Ralf's voice was still softly speaking in my ear. I hit save, then went out for my morning walk, watching the dawn break over the Rhine as I walked down to the Mediahafen and back.

I was in a super-good mood as I rocked up to Klingklang about 10.30. Müller was already in the kitchen, making a cup of coffee, her vape-stick hanging out of one pocket of her leather jacket. As I approached her and called out a greeting, I noticed that one of her trouser legs was still tucked into the top of her boots. A lot of the guys in Klingklang, I noticed, walked in like this, though it tended to even out by the end of the day. Suddenly, seeing a reflector light tagged to the back of her backpack, casually draped over a chair, it clicked.

>>Müller, do you cycle to work?<< I asked casually.

>>Every morning. Do you not, yet? You know Hütter will just keep on at you, every day until you do<< she warned me with a lopsided grin.

I made a nice, strong cup of tea with the kettle that I had persuaded Gudrun to order from a catalogue, the day we'd discussed bank accounts. >>I... _can't_ cycle << I tried to say as casually as possible, trying hard not to make it sound like a guilty confession.

Müller burst out laughing. >>Girlfriend, how did you even get hired here? This is not the office for you.<<

>>Don't laugh<< I sniffed, as I followed her out to the sun-deck so she could have a vape. The morning had turned out fine, and we shook the last of the previous evening's raindrops off the benches to sit down. >>Is this really going to be a problem?<<

>It's easy<< she assured me. >>Look, I'll teach you, if you like. Come round on Saturday afternoon, we'll go to the park near my apartment. You really can learn in an afternoon. It'll be fine.<<

>>That you so much.<< I grinned, pleased with the invitation. If we hung out during the afternoon, it wouldn't seem quite so weird if I asked her where the good bars to hear good music and actually meet local people were. Maybe Düsseldorf at the weekends wouldn't turn out to be so lonely after all.

>>Did they really not teach you in London?<< she asked, seemingly intrigued.

>>I didn't actually grow up in London; we moved to New York when I was nine, and it's far too dangerous to cycle on the street in New York.<<

>>No kidding!<< Now she really looked impressed. >>You really grew up in _The_ _Big Apple_? Cool! << she proclaimed.

>>Well, I only really moved to the city itself in my 20s. I grew up in the suburbs, before I moved to the city proper.<< I felt nervous and a little awkward, trying to explain my weird background in German, but then realised it was the first time, since arriving in Germany that someone had actually asked.

>>That is so cool<< whistled Müller. >>I grew up in Mönchengladbach, so moving to Düsseldorf proper was like moving to the 'big city' for me.<<

>>Where do you live now?<< I probed.

>>On the borders of Derendorf and Pempelfort.<<

>>Posh?<< I asked, only vaguely aware of geography beyond the city centre.

She laughed. >>Not exactly. Too many train tracks, and my apartment is on the wrong side of them. But there's a big park running along them, by Marc-Chagall-Strasse. It'll be a good place to get you on a bike.<<

But as we chatted, a familiar charcoal grey Mercedes drove up along the street from Krefeld and pulled into the parking lot. >>Here comes the boss<< I sighed. >>We better get to work.<<

>>Hang on, what is on the back of his car?<< she asked, standing up to peer over the parapet. It was true; something large and black was lashed to the rear rack. >>See, that's how obsessed with cycling this place is. He's driving, but he's still brought his bike. I wonder what for.<<

The car parked, but still, Ralf did not get out. Abruptly, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Another text message. 'No need to respond, but please come down to the parking lot as soon as you receive this text. I have a surprise for you.'

"His master's texts," I sighed, standing up and picking up my bag, even as Müller continued to stare down at the car. Ralf had climbed out, then gone round to the back and removed the bulky object. Freed from its cover, her observation turned out to be correct. It was a bicycle, but not the streamlined cross-country bike that Ralf habitually rode to work. >>You are kidding me.<< I said. >>He has brought me a fucking bike.<<

Müller burst out laughing. >>Well, looks like I've been pipped to the post. You better go down for some lessons from Hütter. This is going to be hilarious. Where's Günter and Fritz? They need to see this...<<

>>Don't you dare watch<< I muttered, making sure to go back out through the building, rather than down the fire escape, as I did not want him to know we had seen him drive up.

When I got down to the parking lot, I looked first at Ralf, then at the bike, then back at Ralf, puzzled. "What is this?"

"The solution to your problem. You need a cycle. I have a number of cycles, some of which I do not ride enough. So the solution is obvious. You take one of mine. This one, I have had for many years. It is a Raleigh, an excellent English manufacturer. You are an English girl, you should take the English cycle." He smiled proudly, as if very pleased with himself for this idea.

Something in my head just stuck. The laptop, the previous week, that had been a work expense. But this felt like something else. I had learned the hard way, not to trust men who arrived bearing expensive gifts. They always seemed to come with invisible strings. "Ralf, I can't accept this. Thank you for the offer, but it's... I can't."

"Why not?" He looked puzzled, patting the saddle. "It's a good bike. It's not one of my very expensive racing bikes; I would not give you one of those. It's just a good, solid road bike, that I happen to have spare. Why can't you take it?"

"I don't like taking gifts from you. It doesn't feel right. I mean, the computer last week... that was for work. But this... this is a personal gift, and I'm afraid I can't accept that. It wouldn't be right," I repeated stubbornly.

"OK." Ralf's expression changed to crestfallen for a minute and a half, as he wheeled the bike back and forth in front of me, as if he could change my mind by demonstrating its performance. "What about... what if the bicycle is not a gift, but a loan. I lend you the cycle until you can afford one of your own, or until you go home. It is not an obligation, then. It is a loan, like the laptop."

I chewed on my lip, looking at the bicycle, which really was beautiful, one of those 70s touring bikes with the old fashioned logo, then back at Ralf's hopeful face. My gut reaction was to say no. Every one of my instincts told me, this is not a good idea. This is going to be one of those gifts which comes with its own set of strings and obligations - such as going home late from the studio at all hours of the night, long after I was comfortable riding the roads, because Ralf was holding forth on some topic. But Ralf kept smiling at me, and manoeuvring it back and forth to demonstrate how comfortable the ride was.

"Ralf, I told you. I...  _can't_ ride."

"Then I will teach you," he shrugged, his smile widening as he realised my resolve was weakening.

"I don't think you understand. I am actually terrible at this sort of thing."

"I taught my daughter to ride when she was six; I can teach you," he persisted, patting the saddle. "Come on, just hop on. I will go home and get the small stabilising wheels for training, if that will help."

That was it; my pride was piqued. I now had to prove myself better than a six year old. Sighing deeply, I discarded my bag, shedding it onto the bonnet of his car, then stepped up towards the bike, eyeing it nervously. Swinging my leg, I managed to get it over the frame, at least. "You could at least have got me a girl's bike."

"Yes, and you would have been even more insulted by that. Here, let me adjust the saddle. I think you are actually about an inch shorter than me." He said this with such a note of pride that I wanted to hit him, but refrained, since he was still holding the damned machine upright between my legs. "Now. I will hold the bike steady. You put your feed on the pedals, yes like that. Start pedalling, and I will hold you upright so that you do not fall."

We must have made an absolutely comical sight. The first couple of attempts were absolute disasters. I started to pedal, and, as promised, he jogged alongside, holding onto the back of the bike, but as I failed to control the handlebars, the bike would start to wobble, until I gave up and took my feet off the now-flailing pedals. Twice in a row, he put his arm out, and caught me round the waist, saving me from toppling over, though I suspect he was more concerned about the bike than he was about my safety.

"That was good," he assured me each time. "But try to control the handlebars a bit more. Don't try to steer just yet. Just point straight ahead, and concentrate on staying upright."

"I'm not trying to steer," I muttered. "The bloody thing keeps steering itself."

"Then hold them straight. We go again, yes?" suggested Ralf.

"Or maybe you just accept the fact that I am never going to master this bloody thing, and give up?"

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," tutted Ralf. "That is a very bad attitude. Would you have ever learned to write, if you'd just given up the first time you failed to spell 'the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain'? Now. We go again." One of his hands was on the handlebars, holding them straight, the other was on the small of my back, and now he was pushing me off again as I put my feet to the pedals. This time, I managed to stay upright and keep going. For about twenty metres, Ralf ran along side me, his hand still lightly touching my back for support, but suddenly it clicked, and I had the hang of it. I just had to stay in motion, and the bike would stay upright on its own.

"Wait, am I actually doing it now?"

"Yes, yes, very good! Keep going!" called back Ralf, panting and slightly out of breath, as clearly, jogging alongside a speeding bike was no longer quite his fitness level.

"I'm running out of parking lot. How do I turn this thing around?" I called back, frankly surprised that I was still upright for so long.

"Twist the handlebars, and lean your body into the direction you want to turn!" shouted back Ralf, trying to demonstrate. I did as I was told, and found myself describing a long arc, turning back just before I reached the end of the parking lot. "See?" cried Ralf, triumphant. "Who told you that you couldn't ride? You're riding!"

I looped back down the aisle towards him, only to be confronted with a new problem. "That is all well and good... but how do I stop this thing?"

"Ah," shouted back Ralf. "The brakes are on the handlebars. Pull both of them gently, then when the bike is slowed enough, put your foot out to hold yourself up as you glide to a stop."

"Brakes on the handlebars?" I looked where I expected them to be, but there was only a gear shift. "Where?"

"Down below. The levers!" I had stopped pedalling, but the bike was headed slightly downhill, and was not slowing. As I fussed about, looking for the brakes, Ralf and his car seemed to loom closer and closer. "Put your foot out!" he called, and I did my best, but the bike still felt like it was hurtling towards the ground as it started to wobble alarmingly.

Suddenly, Ralf seemed to leap out, and caught me around the waist with one arm. That slowed the bike enough for him to reach forward and pull something on the lower handlebar with his other hand, and the bike finally stopped, only a few feet from his very expensive looking Mercedes.

For a moment, I didn't dare breath. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I could feel my adrenaline surging. Ralf still stood, semi-straddling me, one arm around my waist, the other on the handlebars, looking at me with genuine concern. "Are you alright? No bones broken?"

I closed my eyes for a moment and thought about that, but nothing hurt except my pride, so I nodded my head. "I'm fine." Opening my eyes again, I felt my head start to spin a little, so on impulse, I just laid it gently against his chest, only a few inches away from my cheek. Now, at last, I could smell him, the masculine tang of his sweat rising just above the laundry detergent scent of his freshly ironed shirt. He smelled good, actually, neither old man musty nor adolescent boy goat-like. Just faintly, reassuringly masculine. But to my surprise, he didn't pull away. Holding the bike with his knees, he raised his other hand from the handlebars to my head, and cupped my cheek for just a moment, before smoothing my hair out of my face.

"OK," he said at last. "If you've had enough for the day, we can stop now. We can try again tomorrow."

I laughed aloud, feeling the adrenaline still coursing in my veins. "No way. I wanna do it again."

"That's my girl!" exclaimed Ralf, and for just a moment, he bent down and pressed his face against the top of head. It happened too fast for me to really register what was going on, as he pulled away quickly and tried the guide the bike from under me. "But maybe we move a little further away from the car, OK?"

The next attempt went even more smoothly. He no longer needed to hold the handlebars straight for me, so he let go of my waist after running only a few paces. I felt like I was flying. I got to the end of the row, and turned around and came back, but this time I decided to do several laps of the lot before stopping. Ralf was miming clapping, and shaking his hands over his head in victory as I did another lap, but as I cycled down for the last lap, I just happened to look up at the building. Up on the sun-deck, there were Müller, Günter, Fritz and a technician whose name I could not remember, all laughing their heads off. 'Oh Christ,' I thought to myself. 'Did they all just see Ralf kissing the top of my head.'

"Come around now, my little Yellow-Jersey!" called back Ralf. "I see you can ride now, but you still need to practice stopping. Remember, the brakes are _under_ the handlebars. They are easier to reach if you drop down to a racing position, but you can still access them from underneath the top."

I did my best. Fumbling underneath the handlebars, I found a metal bar I had taken for some kind of structural support, and pulled it towards the main bar. To my surprise, the bike lurched a little, but started to slow. As it came to a stop, I stuck both feet out, dragging a little in the dirt before I came to a very inelegant and clumsy halt, but at least the damned thing stopped this time, several metres away from the car.

"Excellent," said Ralf, beaming like a proud papa.

"OK, I'll give it a go," I conceded. "But if I'm going to ride this on the road, I'll need a helmet... safety equipment."

"Ah yes, of course." Opening the car door, Ralf dug in the back of his vehicle. "Helmet," he said, producing a professional looking bullet-shaped black thing and handing it to me. "You may need to adjust the strap. Everyone says I have a big head, ha ha." Then he pulled out a few more things. "Pump. You should check the tires every day before you head out." This, as I remembered, clipped to the frame of the bike while it was in use. "Headlamp. This slides in here. It has a battery, but if you attach this wire to the dynamo here, it will run off the motion of the front wheel. And this, blinking rear light, you switch on and attach back here. Now you are road worthy." He looked so proud I almost wanted to laugh.

"Well, I can hardly ride it home tonight," I sighed.

"I don't see why not. I will drive you as far as Büderich. From there, it's well lit and the road is fairly straight all the way into Oberkassel. You can follow the tram, and take the bridge home."

"Are you sure it's safe?"

"What do you mean, safe? Just be careful, keep your eyes on the road, and stand your ground. Be a confident cyclist, and you won't have any trouble."

"No, I meant, is it safe for a single woman, alone at night, to.. well, you know."

Again, that breathy laugh. "Katrin, this is Meerbusch, not East Berlin. You will be fine."

We did not talk so late that night; I suppose he wanted to give me the chance to still catch the tram if I was not able to ride all the way home. But true to his word, he loaded the bike onto the back of his car, bundled me into the front seat, then dropped us both at a well-lit intersection with a large sign pointing towards "Düsseldorf - Oberkassel".

I put on the helmet and fastened it, then Ralf watched as I slotted the lamps into their appropriate places on front and back. "You will be alright," he said, as much an assurance as a question, as I wheeled the cycle into the clearly marked bike lane.

"Yeah, I'll be alright." I tested the brakes, trying to remember where they were, and spun the pedal backwards to get it to the right height. "Are you going to drive behind me, all the way into Düsseldorf, like the mechanics on the Tour de France?" I teased.

"Would that make you feel more confident?" He smiled back. "I will, if you like."

"No need. See you tomorrow," I said, with a jaunty wave as I got onto the bike.

"See you Friday. Tomorrow is parents' day at the Pony Club. Papa's presence is required."

Once I was on the bike, it took all of my concentration to get it going. But soon I was off, and as Ralf had promised, it was a very easy ride. I glanced back once, and he was still standing there, by the boot of his car, just watching me ride off with a concerned expression. I suppose it was just a precaution, thinking if I'd fallen, he would have got in the car and come driving after me. But I have no idea how long he stood there, as I was soon utterly captured by the road, the cycle, and the long, smooth strokes that took me home.

I got as far as the bridge. It hadn't been tiring at all on the long, straight roads, but as the gradient took off in anticipation of the climb to the suspension bridge, I felt my thighs start to burn. After a week of climbing those stairs at the Berger Allee, I could probably have handled it, but I decided not to risk it, mostly as I was confused by which lanes were intended for cyclists, pedestrians, motor traffic or the trams. Turning around, I wheeled back to the tram stop. To my surprise, although I'd left with time to catch the last tram, there were two listed on the display. So apart from everything else, cycling was actually quicker than the trams? I caught the next tram, sat in it over the bridge, then whizzed home at dizzying speed along the Rhine embankment on my bike.

It wasn't until I got home that I realised how exhausted I was. Ralf hadn't given me a lock, so I dragged the cycle inside, but left it just in the hall, as I was too tired to carry it up the stairs. Upstairs, I was too shattered to do anything but fall into bed, sore from the long ride. Like a rock, I slept right through until dawn.


	14. Stripped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrin is flummoxed by German bureaucracy. And by Ralf's surprisingly shapely Gluteus Maximus.

In the morning, I was expecting to feel like absolute shit, but to my surprise, I felt bright and energised. My arms were a tiny bit sore from lifting the thing up onto the tram and down again, but other than that, my legs had already been strengthened by the endless stairs at the Berger Allee, and those morning walks down to the Mediahafen and across the swing bridge. Two and a half weeks in Düsseldorf, and I was already far healthier than I'd been when I left London. That morning, I noticed I could tighten my belt another notch.

Downstairs, after breakfast, I examined the bike in detail. In the sunlight, it turned out not to be matte black, but a slightly sparkly glittery graphite texture. Ah, that dated it as a 70s model. I'd tried to ride something quite similar as a child. Up on the frame, just underneath the saddle, there was a small metal nameplate bolted on, declaring "HÜTTER". I laughed, and said "OK, fine, then. Your name is Hütter." It seemed like a good name for a bike.

I took the mechanical Hütter out for a spin, down to the Mediahafen in minutes, then across through Unterbilk. I stopped when I saw an open cycling shop, and bought a lock - well, two locks actually - and a puncture kit. The man on the counter admired my steed. >>Nice bike. They don't make them like that any more,<<

>>It's not mine. It belongs to my boss, he's lent it to me. So I need to take good care of it.<< I said proudly.

The man nodded approvingly and threw in an extra bit of kit, a promotional item emblazoned with the name of the shop, some tiny spanner for tightening the bolts that held the wheels. It was bizarre; by having a nice bike it was like I'd joined some strange cycling fraternity. People nodded to me as we passed in the bike lanes. I started nodding back. At a red light, I stopped by a strapping young man with a racing bike, and there were a distinct few minutes of looking one another over. To be fair, I was admiring his shapely buttocks in very tight lyrca, but he was admiring my dropped handlebars in very tightly wound leather.

And the speed! In the time I normally took to walk to the Mediahafen and back, I had done a complete circuit of the Zentrum and was flying back down the Rhine towards my apartment. Why had I never done this before? Oh, that's right. Because Düsseldorf was almost completely flat, except for a bit of a dip around the Düsseltal, while London provided an almost dizzying array of steep hills that had be surmounted before I could get anywhere.

When I got home, there were messages waiting for me - a text and two emails. A rather worried text from Ralf, just after midnight, wanting to know if I'd got home alright. Then an email from him the next morning, sounding slightly demanding as he told me to top up the credit on my phone, and please email him to let him know I was alright. Then a slightly sulky email from Müller, saying she guessed I didn't want to meet up on Saturday afternoon for bike lessons after all.

I emailed Müller back first saying no, no, I definitely still wanted to meet up. Marc-Chagall-Strasse, right? I'd be there at 2pm, as I could definitely use some tips and pointers and explanations about this bizarre cyclists' code of conduct. She wrote back almost immediately, seeming very pleased, and said she'd see me there, by the clubhouse; I'd know it when I saw it.

I wrote Ralf back a somewhat more measured response, thanking him profusely for the loan - I realised quite guiltily that I'd been so absorbed in trying to ride the thing that I'd neglected to thank him - then assuring him that I'd got home safely. In fact, I was late getting back to him, because I'd taken the bike out for a spin around the city. But at the end, I added a snide little come-back saying I couldn't afford to put more money on my phone until I'd been paid, as I was saving my little cash for food and bike supplies.

To be honest, I didn't get much writing done that Thursday at home. I kept getting distracted, and going down to check on the bike, now chained up in the basement under the building, as Karlheinz had shown me. Every hour or so, I would think of some little errand to run or thing that needed seeing to (the trip to the Commerzbank, for a start) which required me to get the bike out and ride off across Düsseldorf.

The Commerzbank listened patiently to my bad German, then showed me to a small seating area, where I could wait and see someone about opening a new account. I had all my papers: my passport, the contract with Klingklang, Gudrun's letter confirming my employment, a letter from Karlheinz confirming my address, a receipt from Telefonica showing my new local phone number. But honestly, if I needed anything else, I'd have been happy to just cycle back to the Altstadt and fetch it for them.

Although I tried my best to get through the meeting with the bank manager in my rubbish German, after about two and a half minutes, she gave up and switched to English. It was becoming slightly comical, how I persisted, answering in my heavily accented German, to questions that had been posed in English. Everything was "in Ordnung", the passport was accepted, the contract, letter of employment and the salary entered into the computer. But then she paused when she came to Karlheinz's letter.

"Well, normally we would want a copy of the lease, or the rental agreement. This is not even on headed notepaper, so you see, anyone could have written this," she explained, gesturing towards Karlheinz's letter.

>>Well, I don't have a lease, I'm kind of _sub-letting_. << I didn't even know the word for sub-let, so I had to use the English one.

"Still, there would be an agreement? You receive a receipt when you pay, do you not?" she probed.

>>Hmmm. I don't actually pay the rent. It is paid by my employer<< I explained, feeling the hairs start to prickle on the back of my neck. This arrangement, which had seemed so efficient when Ralf had proposed it, now seemed to take on a slightly worrisome tone.

"Well, then your employer will have a record of the rental agreement. May we contact them to obtain these records?"

>>Yes, of course<< I replied.

"OK. All of your information is on the system. I've put in this Berger Allee address for now. We will send you a letter to confirm that you receive post there, and then we will send a letter of confirmation with your bank account details, once everything checks out with your employer," she chirped efficiently.

I thanked her for her time and cycled home, suddenly cursing the extravagance of those cycling purchases this morning. I would have to count carefully all of my Euros when I got home, realising now that they had to stretch until this business with the bank account was resolved. Sure, I had reserves in English pounds in my bank account at home, but with the currency fluctuating the way it was, I did not want to have to draw upon those unless I really needed to.

Luckily, I already had the remains of a weekly Rheinbahn ticket on my Bahncard, so the next morning, I cycled up to tram station by the bridge. I rode the tram as far as the junction where Ralf had parted from me on Wednesday night, then cycled the rest of the way, to acquaint myself with the route during daylight. It was actually a nice ride; quiet, as most of the motor traffic was diverted along busier roads, leaving the cycle route a very pleasant trip.

When I got to Klingklang, I had to ask Müller where the cycle storage area was, but she was happy to take me round the side and show me, and in fact took the opportunity to show off her own bike, which she had actually purchased through the government scheme. It was a much nicer ride than she could otherwise have afforded she told me, but she winked and added that employees all having the nicest bikes was a matter of company pride to der Chef. I laughed, but resolved to be much nicer to Ralf when I saw him, realising what a considerate gesture it had been to loan me one. She looked at me a little strangely, as if she wanted to ask me a question, but Rudi, one of the other technicians, arrived and she seemed to change her mind.

Before I started work, I went back to the main office to talk to Gudrun about the rental agreement. I explained the situation, saying that Ralf had paid Karlheinz for my room, but that I needed some kind of lease or agreement to prove that I lived there. Gudrun opened up her accounting package, and looked through the receipts for the past month, but she could find nothing; no payments to Karlheinz, and no payments to AirBNB either on the main account, or the company credit card. The laptop had just turned up on the credit card statement, and been assigned a department and a tax code, but nothing about rent.

>>That's odd<< she said. >>Maybe he's submitted it as an expense.<< But as she looked through his expenses - some dinners in Bilbao, taxi receipts, a cheque to a cycling-wear manufacturing company in Belgium - there was nothing that seemed to fit. >>Hang on, I'll just see when he's in.<<

As I watched, she opened up an app on her desktop, and typed in "Locate Ralf?" Up popped a blinking green dot on the screen, then slowly a map filled in around him. I recognised the suburbs to the south of Krefeld, between the city and Meerbusch, as Ralf's green dot travelled steadily down a suburban street.

>>He's only five minutes away. He'll be here in an eyeblink. I'm sure we'll sort it out then.<<

>>What is that?<< I asked, wondering how she had got a fix on him so fast.

>>Geolocation<< she responded. >>Isn't it clever? We need it especially when they tour. We have one for Ralf, Fritz, Henning, and a couple of the others from the touring party. Falk, of course<< It was funny how no one seemed to really consider Falk quite on the same _Stellung_ as the others.  >>Günter, the tour manager, the soundman. It saves on all of those endless 'where are you, when will you be here?' conversations when we are on tour. And there are security considerations, of course. You can never be too careful these days.<<

>>How does it work?<<

>>Through the SIM card of the Handy. Here, I'll show you.<< She typed in another command. 'Locate Günter?' A green dot appeared hovering above the business park. >>Oh, he has left his Handy in the car. Typical. Let me show you another.<< She typed in 'Locate Fritz?' She chuckled as the map shifted, whizzing off to the west, to a city on the Belgian border. >>Well, he won't be in today.<< She typed in 'Locate Henning?' The green dot whizzed back to Klingklang. >>Yes, he is next door, trying out Müller's new synth-bass patch. You see it's very accurate... look, now Ralf is only a minute away.<<

True to her word, about two minutes later, the front door beeped, and there was the distinctive bouncing stride of Ralf coming up the stairs.

>>Ralf?<< she called. >>We are in here.<<

When he saw me, he positively beamed. "I saw your cycle in the lock-up just now. I am so pleased you rode it today."

I couldn't help myself; I just smiled right back. The pleasure it brought him was so palpable I found myself grinning. "Well, I got the tram over the bridge. But I cycled most of the way. It's fun; I can see how it could get addictive."

"We will make a cyclist of you yet," he promised, moving closer to me and patting me gently on the back. As he touched me, I remembered that tiny moment in the parking lot, when I had leaned my head against his chest, and he had brushed his face against the top of my hair, and I flushed slightly, leaning towards him without even meaning to. This morning, he was slightly sweaty from cycling, and again I caught a faint whiff of that pleasantly masculine scent. I had always thought cyclists would smell sweaty and gross, but he smelled good. I felt very tempted to pull down the zipper of his lycra top and push my nose against his pale chest, inhaling deeply, but Gudrun's voice pulled me back to reality.

>>Ralf, dear. Katrin needs a rental agreement as proof of address to open her bank account. How did you pay her landlord? You haven't submitted an expense form.<<

Ralf stopped to think about it, though I noticed he did not take his hand from my back. In fact, it slipped casually lower, from my shoulder down to the small of my back, where it rested gently, leaving me finding it very hard to concentrate. >>I paid Karlheinz through AirBNB. Ach, I thought I paid it on the corporate account, but I must have paid it on my personal account.<<

>>Well, there would have been a confirmation email<< said Gudrun patiently. >>There's always a confirmation email.<<

>>I will look for it later. I'm going to have a shower. I'll meet you upstairs in fifteen minutes, Katrin?<< He smiled and withdrew, leaving my back suddenly feeling awfully cold. I hadn't thought about showering after cycling to work, but then again, I hadn't ridden very hard, while Ralf's green dot had been moving down the suburban street so quickly that I had just assumed he had been in a car.

>>Never mind<< said Gudrun, after he had gone. >>I can get into his account - he uses the same password for everything, no matter how many times we tell him to change it. I'll get the information and email it to you, and to the bank manager.<<

>>Thank you so much.<<

"Bitte Schön," she called back cheerfully as I trooped back out into the hall. I found the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea - and, now habitually, a cup of coffee for Ralf - then climbed the stairs to my office. Yes, there was the burn in my thighs from the morning's ride. Actually, it felt quite nice in a strange, masochistic way. It was almost, but not quite, like the same sore but sated feeling after a heavy session of energetic sex.

I dropped my bag in my room, then went into Ralf's office to put the coffee on his desk, ready for him. Pushing aside his chair, over which he'd draped some dark-coloured clothing, his jacket or something, I noticed that he had a little heated cup-holder by his computer, which would keep his drink at precisely the right temperature, a touch I thought amusing but very, very typical. But then I saw there was another cardboard record box on the floor, that looked like the box of diaries, so I went over to poke my nose into it. Yes, more diaries. From 1988 to 2008. Knowing full well that I was trespassing, I picked up the last book and started to flick through it. Ralf's handwriting had changed over the years; if it were possible, it seemed to have grown even more spidery and cramped, crawling across the page. And the Ralf of 2008 was most perturbed.

>>Florian has become even more impossible. He does not communicate, he will not talk, he never even turns up at the studio any more, and will not show even the slightest bit of interest in the new premises in Mollfeld. As much as I do not want to see him go, if he wants to resign, honestly, he should just resign, and get it over with! I cannot stand this dithering, back and forth, with no communication except through the lawyers to say what he won't do: He won't tour. He won't commit to the 3D performances. He won't work on any more upgrading of old music. God, he infuriates me sometimes! And yet, and yet... I cannot even imagine getting up onstage without him. As much as he infuriates me, his presence still calms me. Ralf and Florian; Florian and Ralf. Just like it has always been. Shit, I wish he were not so difficult. I wish I could talk to someone, who has known him as long as I have. But who can I talk to?<<

I closed the book and put it down, feeling like I had intruded on something very personal. And yet, I couldn't help myself. I picked up another at random.

>>Jutta has been busying herself greatly with plans for our wedding. A wedding! I know, it sounds absurd to write of it. I never thought I would marry. To have seen the misery that marriage caused my sister, and her happiness since she has been free of that man. To have watched my mother, my brilliant, loving, warm mother, slowly worn down by marriage to that fascist, my father. I never wanted this for myself. I wanted to be unconventional, to be free. And yet Jutta, she has simply changed all of that. It feels so natural, with Jutta. It feels like this is all I have ever wanted, and I could not imagine it any other way. We will marry in the summer, she says, out in the country. She wants a simple, peasant wedding, white frocks, traditional clothes for the children, bridesmaids and a little tow-headed boy in lederhosen to carry the ring. I tried very hard not to laugh when she told me this, trying to imagine, my black-clad musician friends and artists, stomping through the fields in their designer clothes. And yet, when I said it, as gently as I could, Jutta herself laughed, and said she saw my point, so maybe we would have a town wedding after all.<<

I closed the book swiftly and put it back. Jutta. So I now had a name, for the wife. Jutta Hütter, good god what a name. I wondered again what she looked like - Ralf's diary, of course, did not provide a description. I had only Müller's brief description to go by - she was slim, and blonde, and slightly tomboyish. Jutta. She sounded very traditional, from the description of her dream wedding. I tried to imaging Ralf a bridegroom, but I just couldn't. Ralf was just Ralf. Always in black, always in those form-fitting trousers and those button-down shirts. I imagined he even slept in black pyjamas, exactly like that.

But just as I was bending down to select another diary, I heard a loud click across the room. One of the blank black panels, which I had always taken as the cover for another bookshelf, slid slowly out, allowing a bit of steam to escape, and then Ralf stepped through. I pulled back from the box, and then froze, for he was wearing a black undershirt, a pair of black y-front pants, and nothing else.

He didn't even seem to notice me at first, his attention was distracted, whistling to himself as he dragged a comb across disordered hair that had only very recently been towelled dry. He didn't even look, to do the parting, he just dragged the comb down and across, then flicked one set of bedraggled curls one way straight down to his ear, and the other was slicked back across his forehead. I could smell the pomade he used. It was a very old fashioned type; so that accounted for the slightly waxy scent. His dyed hair was darkened when wet, so that it was obvious that the roots were almost completely white.

Then he turned his back to me. My eyes slid down his body, and I was confronted with his neat, plumply rounded arse, and then the great expanse of his bare legs. Herr Hütter, to put it mildly, was hardly a sex god. His posture was very bad, his slight shoulders slumped, and all of the weight collapsed downward into a rather noticeable pot-belly, the cotton of the T-shirt stretching to cover it. His skin was so pale, almost otherworldly white above his knees, where his tan-line stopped. His calves, although a slightly darker shade of beige than the rest of his bone-white skin, were shaved quite smooth. But the tone of his skin, itself, was not of an even texture. I could see showers of freckles escaping from the capped sleeves of his undershirt, and moles everywhere - his neck, his legs, his upper arms - a constellation of moles. I found it actually quite cute, how dappled his skin was, interesting textures that seemed to invite touch.

And for the most part, he was hairless. There was a narrow strip of greying body hair poking out on his belly between the waistband of his pants and the hem of his undershirt, but his arms, his shins... his skin was as bare as if he had shaved it. The texture of his flesh was slightly crepey, like the exposed skin of his hands, but the web of thick, knotted muscles on his legs kept it taut, so it was not too wrinkled. His legs... well. His calves were slim, and very shapely, but his thighs, which I had always thought of as slightly fat, were actually like two great tree-trunks, gnarled and criss-crossed with bands of muscles and knobbly veins. These were very definitely still the legs of a long-distance cyclist, despite the noticeable paunch.

So this was Ralf Hütter, half-naked. It was not an overtly erotic sight, but I felt oddly touched. He looked vulnerable, human, stripped of that black-clad armour. He wasn't an intimidating synth-god; he was just a middle-aged man with a round paunch and freckled shoulders. I wasn't consumed with lust, but I wanted to go to him, to put my arms around him, to give him a little hug. He would have been terrifying if he'd had a washboard stomach and straining pecs, but his softness pleased me. His arse... well, yes. his arse was definitely good, the kind of round, shapely arse that seemed to invite a quick squeeze.

At that moment, he turned, and suddenly caught sight of me, his face turning to a round O of surprise, his eyebrows raised, his mouth puckered open. His first instinct was not to cover himself, but to try to pull himself up straight, throwing back his shoulders and sucking in his gut. With his posture improved, he didn't look quite so rotund, but still he cast about until he found his black trousers thrown over the back of his chair, and pulled them up, buttoning them quickly so that his pale, speckled skin disappeared. Then he picked up his button-down shirt, and fastened it over the top. "I am so sorry. I did not know you were up here," he eventually stuttered, doing up his cuffs and slipping his feet into a pair of leather slippers.

"Neither did I. I thought you were in the showers downstairs," I sputtered.

"I have my own, private bathroom up here. Perhaps I should have showed it to you... but I thought you would rather share with the girls."

"It's fine," I assured him, though I felt my face starting to flush. It was hard to see him now, even fully dressed, and not try to imagine the speckled skin beneath. "I really am sorry, I had no idea."

"It is I who should apologise," Ralf replied, and now he seemed to be growing flustered, as if he could see something new in my gaze. "My goodness, I am in such bad form; I have allowed myself to get out of shape. I have not been training, have been driving the car to work, instead of cycling. I am setting a poor example for the band..." Sucking in his gut, he located his belt and threaded it through his trousers as he tucked in his shirt.

"There's no need to apologise," I laughed, strangely charmed that he seemed embarrassed by his physicality. "I mean, I'm hardly one to criticise." Pulling my shirt taut, I showed him the mound of my own paunch, though that was slightly less noticeable than when I left London.

"It's different. You are a woman. Women are supposed to be soft, curved."

I wanted very badly to ask if slim, boyish Jutta was soft and curved; if Jutta had a paunch, or baby weight she had not shed. But I knew that would sound catty. Ralf sat down and patted his tummy, but he still seemed flustered, his skin showing bright red at the back of his neck.

"It's embarrassing, being so out of shape," he finally confessed, tugging at the neck of his shirt. "Maybe I should start to visit the gym. There is one in the complex, you know, if you wish to train. You can access it with your building pass, but I have been... well, maybe I have been a little lax lately. This will change, I assure you."

"Do you want me to leave?" I asked, feeling the embarrassment wafting off him, stronger than the scent of his pomade.

"No, no. It's fine. You may stay. I brought some more of the diaries in from home, for you. I don't know if there's anything useful in there, but you can look." Again, he sat up unusually straight, and tried to suck in his gut, throwing me an odd glance, biting his lip, as if he wanted to enquire something of me. And suddenly, it struck me. The way he was looking at me. He had been as surprised by presence as I had been by his; it was not the slightest bit intentional. But he was still a man. He was acting as if he wanted to know what my reaction was. He seemed _curious_ , as to whether I had found his body attractive or not.

I had forgotten how to do this! I didn't have the faintest clue how to flirt any more, or how to subtly let a man know that I approved of his physicality. It had been the same with the well-formed cyclist on Graf-Adolf-Platz the previous morning. But I felt it was worse to give no reaction at all. I could see that Ralf was starting to frown, very self-consciously, so I caught his eye and smiled cautiously, raising my eyebrows slightly as I peered at him over the frames of my glasses. "You actually looked fine to me," I said quietly, with a slightly salacious look. "You are in very good shape for your age."

"Ach!" scolded Ralf, but though his tone was disapproving, I could see the pleasure shining all over his face. "You should not say such things to me! I am old enough to be your father."

"And you are my boss," I reminded him. "I didn't even look."

"Of course you didn't!" agreed Ralf. 

"But if I had..."

"Which of course we both know you wouldn't."

I lowered my voice to a whisper. "Well. I would have enjoyed seeing such finely-shaped and muscular cyclist's legs."

He smiled at me over the top of his chunky black reading glasses. I smiled back at him. The moment stopped being awkward, and suddenly felt highly charged. I felt very aware of him sitting on the other side of the room, not a robot, not a machine, but a man with a body, and a body that had desires, desires to be noticed, and desires to be approved of. And he seemed suddenly aware of my gaze as something to be courted. We still sat, together, in that warm silence we'd both found so conducive to work. But over the course of the afternoon, though we both pretended very hard, neither of us got the slightest bit of work done.


	15. Die Schöne Aussicht

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Müller and Katrin go for a bike ride around Düsseldorf, and Müller, while drunk and bonding over fandom, spills a little more of Klingklang's - and Ralf's - history than she intends to.

That evening, I managed to cycle all the way back to Oberkassel without stopping, though I still caught the Tram over the bridge.

I did my shopping and my chores on Saturday morning, had a quick lunch, then cycled over to Derendorf to meet Müller. It was easy enough to find the 'Clubhouse', a small cafe that attracted hordes of young people willing around outside, buying hot drinks in the cool, crisp air. Müller saw me first, and cycled straight up to me, though I almost didn't recognise her at first, as she'd changed her hair colour. It was now dyed a pale robin's egg blue all over, giving way to an aqua streak flopping into a sort of crest above one eye.

>>Your hair always looks so great<< I told her, running a hand self consciously over my unruly ginger curls. >>Where do you get it cut?<<

>>Oh, here. I still have the card from my appointment this morning. Sascha does my hair; she's great.<< She handed over a brightly coloured business card with a graffiti style logo. >>Shall we get a cup of coffee, then see about your cycling lessons?<<

Really, I didn't need any further cycling lessons, I just wanted the company. But Müller seemed perfectly happy to provide it. I asked a few questions, and got her to demonstrate proper gear-change procedure. She gave me a lot of tips about how to project confidence with motor traffic and other cyclists, about how to claim your proper space on the road, and not be intimidated by men.

Since it became obvious I didn't need remedial lessons, she suggested a ride out to the Graffenberger Wald, so I could get used to shifting gears if I needed to go up hills, since it was the only hilly place in central Düsseldorf. She barked out orders of when to change, and I was quite proud of myself when I managed to get up to the Schöne Aussicht on two wheels without once getting off to push. We just sat on our bikes for a few minutes, staring out at the amazing view across the city, as I caught my breath.

We pushed on, deeper into the woods, along well-worn trails. It was fun, cycling through the forest, though great billowing piles of leaves, always with Müller's robin's egg hair bobbing up and down in front of me.

As the sun started to dip, she suggested a nearby pub with a beergarden. I got the first round in as she watched the bikes and rolled a cheeky cigarette she insisted she had earned with all that healthy exercise.

>>I don't want to drink too much beer, though<< I warned. >>I'm not a very competent cyclist yet, so I don't want to try to cycle home drunk.<<

>>You're fine<< insisted Müller, waving away her smoke. >>You just need to learn more confidence.<<

>>Well<< I conceded, trying to pay her a compliment. >>I do have a very good teacher.<<

>>Jaaaa!<< Müller burst into a stream of very cheeky laughter. >>We all noticed you getting that very intimate cycling lesson from Hütter the other morning.<<

"Oh Christ," I said, feeling my face flushing a very bright red. >>Why did you... Honestly, did you have to invite everyone have to come out to look, and laugh at me?<<

Müller giggled a little, kicking me gently under the table. >>I told you, your little.. _relationship_ with Hütter, it is the most exciting thing to happen in Klingklang in years. << The word she used - Beziehung - was ambiguous. It would mean a business relationship as easily as a personal one, but the way she pronounced it made it clear she intended the word to mean an intrigue.

"Es gibt _keine_ Beziehung," I snapped, perhaps a little too defensively, as her titter became a cascade of laughter.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," she squeaked, in imitation of a posh Shakespearian accent. >>We all saw that little clinch down in the parking lot. Fritz hooted with laughter. He winked and said, 'now _that_ is going to end in trouble, and probably very expensive trouble, if Jutta sees.' Günter was a bit sceptical, he said 'nah, she is not his type. He only goes for petite girls. They might flirt with each other, but it is just playing.' Rudi, though, Rudi shook his head and cackled with laughter, saying 'Things are so much looser in the private sector. If one of the big bosses at WDR' - he came to us from the television station, you see - 'acted like that with a secretary, he's be up for a sexual harassment suit so fast his head would spin.' <<

I stared at her, absolutely aghast. >>And what did you say, while all our colleagues are making dirty the reputation of your friend?<<

Again, Müller cackled. >>I told them don't be stupid. Straight girls may be crazy, but she's smarter than to get involved with something like that.<<

>>I'm not straight<< I reminded her testily.

>>Hey, there's no reason for them to know that. If they thought that for even a moment... oh, no way I'm getting mixed up in your office intrigues. No way.<< She winked as the elbowed me. >>My round, I think<<

As she got up to go to the bar, I took out my phone and started fiddling with it. One new text message... Hütter of course. 'I hope you are making use of this glorious sunshine day to utilise your little gift... I mean loan of course. I have been for a ride out through Uerdingen to the Rhine meadows. Absolutely perfect day for it. See you Monday.'

With my head, I knew I should not respond; that to respond to Ralf's texts only invited more of them, and then all my credit would be gone for the month. But I couldn't resist. 'Yes! I've gone out to Grafenberger Wald with Müller. The light through the trees at this time of year is just so beautiful. Have to go; no more credit.'

Of course he pinged straight back. Phone-hating Ralf had become completely addicted to the Handy. 'Ah! There is very pretty little Biergarten just on the edge of the forest. I must take you there some time. Hope you girls have a lovely day.'

I didn't have the heart to tell him that Müller had beaten him to the punch this time, but there was no time to respond, as she reappeared with our beers, and I did not want her to catch me texting Ralf, as then I would never hear the end of it. But as soon as she sat down, she picked up the subject again, of her own accord.

>>Look, you must admit, the two of you do spend an awful lot of time holed up in his office together. People are curious, they are going to talk.<<

>>We're not 'holed up' together. We work together there because it's quiet. It's the only place in Klingklang I can work undisturbed.<< I explained.

>>For the transcription<< she probed, with a raised eyebrow.

>>Yes, for the transcription<< I reiterated.

>>Look, you don't have to maintain this fiction with me. I know you are writing the whole thing. I can see the files on the server. You create them, you upload them to the server. He opens them, sure, but the actual size of the files doesn't change unless you're the one editing them. You don't have to pretend to me, that he's writing the book. I know that you're writing the book.<<

>>Well, then, if you know, then you already know<< I said succinctly. >>You don't need me to confirm or deny.<<

Müller sulked slightly, caught on her own logic, then tried again. >>But what do you two _talk_ about, up there for nine or ten hours at a stretch? He doesn't let anyone else in there, you know. <<

>>Really?<< I don't know why that surprised me, but it was true. We were never, ever interrupted; not so much as a tap on the door. Occasionally, Ralf would get an email or a message bringing up some matter he would have to go down and attend to, but his office itself was like a secret bunker.

She shook her head as she took another draught of beer. She was drinking much quicker than me, but I was trying to keep my wits about me, slowly realising that office friendships came with their own constraints and pitfalls. >>Yeah, none of us are allowed up there. We have to wait for him to come downstairs if we want to talk to him. Not even Gudrun's allowed up there; he banished her after she threw away some important magazine he was saving for some reason. Only the cleaner goes up there - and Achim, if he has a problem with his Mac or his network connection. He doesn't really trust me to fix his Mac, you see.<<

>>I'm not sure I blame him, considering what a gossip you are.<<

>>I'm not a gossip<< Müller protested. >>I'm in the information business. We all are.<< She sipped her beer as I eyed her steadily. >>Look, I'm not having a go at you. Honestly, I'm not. But it's a small office, and very close-knit. People talk. And you two do spend a _lot_ of time together. <<

>>Of course I spend a lot of time with him<< I protested. >>I have to interview him. And he's so introverted it can take hours to get him to warm to me and open up. I don't want this turned into something... dirty.<< The word I would have used in English was _sordid_ , but I didn't know the German. >>We talk. I get him to tell me about the past, though it sometimes take a while to get him there. Then I take the tapes home, transcribe them, and turn his wandering thoughts into the basic structure of his book. It's a convoluted process, but it is, also, a very intimate one. And I don't want to risk that emotional intimacy by exposing it to people who want to see something dirty or sexual about it.<<

>>I see<< said Müller quietly, her usual giggles finally ceased.

>>Have you ever written a book, Müller?<<

That got her laughing again. >>Oh god, nothing of the sort. Well, not unless you count experiments with fan fiction when I was a horny teenager or college student.<<

>>Really? What fandom?<<

>>Oh my god, I'm not telling you<< she snorted. >>You're a professional, I'm not having you find that stuff.<<

>>Well, what sort of thing? Music? Television shows? Films? Manga?<<

>>Television, mostly. I had a big thing for British dramas, sci-fi, that sort of thing. Sherlock, Doctor Who, you know the sort.<<

>>Alright. Who did you ' _ship_? << I teased, delighted to have turned the shoe on the other foot for once. >>Come on, I know you were into _slash_. <<

The expression on her face was delightful, halfway between embarrassment and a genuine enthusiasm, like she recognised another fan, and really wanted to fess up. >>Wholock, alright? That was my big ' _Ship_ , OK? A lot of AU crossover stuff, between Cumberbatch and Ten. Taking him on time travel trips back to the Victorian era to meet the original Sherlock Holmes, you can imagine... no, don't laugh.<

>>I'm not laughing, I promise. I think that sounds great. Who was your favourite companion?<<

>>Rose<< she said, without hesitation. >>God, I had such a massive crush on Rose, I think that was when it became totally obvious to all my friends that I was a lesbian. Because I was so angry when she got together with the half-Time Lord. I wanted her to go off and have fabulous adventures on her own.<<

>>What about Martha?<<

>>Oh, she was a great character she did nothing with. That was such a shame, because she had such potential. But at least she wasn't as bad as Donna.<<

>>Don't you dare. Don't you _dare_ << I warned.

>>Donna was such a complete idiot. How could anyone like Donna? And she kept insulting the Doctor. That's just not done<< Müller protested, getting really animated.

>>That was what was great about her! All of the young girls were just falling all over themselves lusting after him, and Donna was just... you're not such hot stuff to me. And anyway, come on. Fat, middle-aged, mouthy ginger? Like that's not going to appeal to me?<<

>>Is that the kind of dynamic you and Hütter have, then?<< she teased right back.

"Fuck off!" I blurted out, in English, because I still couldn't swear properly in German.

>>You're blushing<< she said.

>>No, honestly, stop it. Hütter and I, we just... we just get on. We just clicked, and I don't really know why. Is he not... I mean, he seems friendly enough with the other members of staff. It can't be that unusual that we're friends.<<

>>Well<< said Müller thoughtfull. >>He's not cold, but.... Yes-no, he's not, you know, a _pal_. He always keeps his distance. He's closer to some people he's known a very long time - and, obviously, he's a lot closer to Gudrun, still - but yes. It is unusual. <<

>>Gudrun?<< I asked. >>What, is he always just closer to women, or...?<<

>>Oh<< she said, her mouth forming a round O of concern as if she realised she had just let slip something she shouldn't have. >>Oh, I forget, there's all kinds of history you don't know.<<

>>What kind of history?<< I asked, cautiously, thinking of that intimate 'Ralf, Liebling' that had slipped out in conversation, and how casually Gudrun had known all of Ralf's passwords and got into his AirBNB account, his location tracking, and the like.

Müller sighed and shifted on her bench, rolling another cigarette. >>OK, this is just what I've heard, because it was all a very long time ago, before my time, really. Ralf and Gudrun used to be a couple. I mean, this is all 20 years ago, obviously before either of them got married.<<

>>Ralf and Gudrun?<< I repeated, feeling suddenly very odd. What if this was a _thing_? That Ralf used the female employees of Klingklang as a dating pool? I had heard rumours of male bosses who did this sort of thing, but never thought I'd fall for it myself.

>>She left him for Günter, who - so I've heard - was taller, better-looking, less socially inept than Ralf. It was really awkward for a while, because Günter has been with Kraftwerk forever. Since the old days; he joined around the '81 tour. Ralf didn't handle it well. He got very paranoid for a while. This was around the time that Karl had left, and then that other guy - oh what was his name - Fernando didn't work out. And now Günter, their stage manager, has gone off with his girlfriend? It was a mess. This was before my time, so I wasn't here, but... Well... we all talk.<< I thought immediately of the way that she and Fritz giggled at the kitchen table, and knew who she talked to.

I let out a deep sigh, wondering if I was ever going to be allowed to address any of this in the 'autobiography'. >>I had no idea. What happened, I mean... obviously they've got over it now, but... How did they handle that?<<

>>Is was really difficult, because Günter wasn't just their stage manager, he was also doing all the merch. He was running the mail order from his house out in Krefeld, and suddenly he and Ralf weren't really talking to one another. Obviously, eventually Ralf and Günter made up, especially after Ralf met Jutta. So when they moved to the new premises, out in Mollfeld, part of the whole idea was to bring these two sides of the business back together, and back under Ralf's control, the merchandising and the studio business together under one roof. But after Florian quit, you know, a couple of long-standing employees went with Florian. My old boss, Peter, for a start. I think Ralf was concerned that Günter might have second thoughts, so to sweeten the deal, he offered Gudrun a job. The two of them run the place together, Günter handling the music stuff, Gudrun handling the business stuff.<<

I breathed a small sigh of relief. So the relationship pre-dated the job. And Ralf certainly seemed to have proved that he could keep his personal and his business life separate, given the professional way he treated Gudrun. >>Ah<< I said delicately. >>So the office is even more incestuous than it looks.<

>>Oh, girlfriend, you don't even know the half of it.<< Smirking, Müller finished her beer.

I took a sip of my own, which was only halfway down, then pointed to hers. >>Do you want another one?<<

>>Oh go on, then.<<

I bought her another pint, but asked for a glass of lemonade to top mine up with, to make shandy. Müller was a confident enough cyclist that I thought she could honestly ride in any condition, but I was still nervous about the ride home.

>>Like what<< I said, trying to pick up the topic again. >>Tell me the half I don't know.<<

>>What, so you can put it in that book of yours?<<

>>Nothing goes in the book that Hütter doesn't approve of. Really, I just want to know, so that I don't tread on any toes.<<

>>Well<< said Müller, leaning forward over the table and warming to her subject. >>You should probably be warned about Gudrun and Jutta, then.<<

>>What about them.<< I wondered if she knew that I had still never met Jutta.

>>Oh, they do _not_ get on, though they both try to put on a pretty face for Hütter, like each of them trying to prove they are above the dispute; in front of him at least. But behind his back... phew. Just watch out for them. Don't get involved, is my policy. <<

>>I thought Jutta wasn't supposed to be the jealous type.<< But who had told me that? Well, Ralf, of course.

>>Oh, it's not like that, at all. It's about control. Jutta thinks, as the wife, that she should have ultimate say-so over Ralf.<<

>>Control of what?<< I probed.

>>You know, Hütter's schedule, his professional engagements, where he stays when he's on tour, little details like that. But Gudrun, as the press secretary, you see, this is her actual job. To get him to appointments, to manage his appearances on tour, to book all of his interactions with the press. And she does it very well. Gudrun already knows, what are his favourite hotels in every city in the world, and where he likes to stay. But Jutta, she likes to meddle, just to prove that she is the wife, so she is number one. It's ridiculous, and honestly, Hütter could put a stop to it if he chose, if he just said to Jutta, look, this is Gudrun's job, back off. But he won't. He's unusually deferential, when it comes to Jutta.<<

>>What's she like?<< I finally asked.

>>Jutta? Oh, she's very conscientious, very _correct_. Some people think she's a little stuck up, but I don't think so. She's just a little stiff and formal, same as he is. They suit one another very well in that way. <<

'Ralf and his _Stellung_ again,' I thought to myself.  >>Is she like that with all the staff?<<

>>No, she's not at all unfriendly. And that's the thing. She's very kind, very gracious. She would never be impolite to you, even if she doesn't like you. She's very charming, very good at that kind of... social lubrication, in a way that Hütter isn't. She's good for him. I like Jutta, though I know some in the studio don't.<<

>>What, apart from Gudrun?<<

Müller nodded slowly, as she raced through her third pint. >>Well. Jutta used to come on tours, in the old days, when their daughter was still young enough. These days, obviously, she doesn't, because there is school. But I think touring was a rather different affair before wives and children started coming along - not, mind you, that it was ever a particularly debauched business for this lot. They've never been into drugs around here. Never. But girls... well.<<

>>I thought the groupies stopped when Wolfgang left.<<

>>Not the band. They're not so interested, they're all married. But the technicians... the roadies...? She had a swift _word_ about that dirty soundman's proclivities. Like I said, half these geeks would never meet women, if they didn't work for a cool band. But Jutta put a stop to all that. Said it was unseemly. <<

>>I suppose you have a wonderful time on tour<< I teased.

>>I don't do so badly<< laughed Müller. >>I always find a way to have fun.<<

>>You don't have a steady girlfriend, then?<<

>>Who has the time?<< shrugged Müller, with a telling grin.

>>So, in that case, you can kind of show me where to hang out, in town? Where to meet people, you know?<<

Müller cackled with laughter. >>I'm not so sure I should. Maybe Hütter wouldn't want you wasting your time going to bars and meeting girls. It might distract you.<<

>>Yeah, but maybe if I met someone, I wouldn't be so emotionally vulnerable, and susceptible to being closeted up with Hütter all of the time<< I teased back.

Picking up her beer, Müller stopped laughing and looked at me very carefully. I had been joking, but as she seemed to evaluate me, I realised I had also kind of been serious. >>Yeah, alright<< she finally said. >>Next Saturday, I'll take you out to the good bars. Not that rubbish in the Altstadt. The hipper places, like Unterbilk and the like.<< We finished our beers, and rode shakily home.

That night, I slept particularly badly, my stomach bothered by all of that Altbier, particularly without a proper supper, aside from peanuts we'd snacked on in the Biergarten. I kept waking up, and my dreams were disturbed. I was back in Hütter's office, and he came striding out of the shower, half dressed again. But this time, when he noticed me, though he still stood up straight and sucked in his gut, he did not instantly sweep his trousers off the back of the chair. Instead, he walked over towards me, and seemed to grow taller as he moved. His hands went to my belt as he bent over me. He was oddly strong, overpowering me as he pushed me back against the leather of the sofa, seizing my shoulders with his hands and pushing my knees apart with his legs. The dream turned graphic; I felt the pressure as he entered me, the force of his thrusts almost lifting me off the sofa. I clung on, digging my fingernails into his back, his freckles dancing before my eyes. The arousal seemed unbearable, I wanted to reach down and pleasure myself, but his body was in the way, slamming me again and again. I wondered if he would make a sound as he climaxed...

...and suddenly, I was awake, in a sweaty tangle on my bed, fighting with the blankets. The heating had come on in the night, and I was too hot, but my legs had got all tangled with the duvet. I managed to get the weight off me, then lay back, panting. It was still too hot, and I desperately needed to relieve myself. I got up and cracked the windows, then made a trip to the loo. Karlheinz had neglected to turn the little sign that showed it was unoccupied, so I had to tap gently on the door, to make sure I was not confronted with another semi-naked old man.

But when I went back to bed, I was still desperately horny. I lay back, trying to sleep, but I couldn't stop thinking of the dream. Every time I closed my eyes, I thought of Ralf on top of me, the moment as he entered me, the scent of pomade and cycling sweat as I clung to his shoulders. What if I didn't just lie there? What if I got up and went to him, pulling him down on top of me? Oh, stop it! I tried to ban such thoughts from my mind, and tried counting to one hundred in German, until I fell asleep.

 

The next day I was distracted. I saw my phone had a new message - dammit, Ralf had texted yet again. It wasn't anything bad, just telling me that there would be a documentary on German silent film that I might really enjoy, on the television the next evening. I didn't reply, but took a shower instead. Oh, damn, there was my period. No wonder I'd been so unspeakably horny the night before.

After breakfast, I got on my bike and rode further than I had ever ridden before, but South, down towards Benrath, rather than risk going North along the Rhine and running into a certain Krefelder cycling in the meadows near Uerdingen. Another text hit my inbox as I stopped to eat at a riverside cafe. I nearly swore aloud, thinking it was Ralf, but no. It was Müller.

>>God, I was a bit drunk last night, and I told you a whole load of unsubstantiated rumours. PLEASE do not put any of that in your book, and if you do, do NOT tell Ralf that I was the source of it.<<

>>Don't worry, I have no intention of doing so. I'm just glad to have been warned of any potential conflicts at Klingklang. See you Monday. x<< I texted back.

The daily Text From Ralf didn't arrive until I was back in Düsseldorf. Again, it was nothing bad, in fact it was perfectly friendly and nice, filling in a small detail I'd previously asked him to fact-check about his education. But it was just the sheer volume of texts that I was starting to accumulate from the man. I corrected the fact in my manuscript, as required, but again, did not reply, seeing as replying to one always seemed to spur receiving about three more.


	16. Rehearsals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrin is starting to worry about the endless small but expensive gifts with which Ralf is showering her, as she wonders if the flirtation is starting to turn serious. And Kraftwerk - gasp! - actually have some fun, while preparing for their South American tour.

I arrived at work on Monday, having cycled the entire way. Well, I pushed the bike up the spiralling entry ramp to the bridge, but other than that, I cycled the whole road and only stopped once, for directions, when I got a bit lost trying to find the turn-off towards Mollfeld. Since I had remembered to bring a change of clothes, I showered quickly in the girls' bathroom, then made my way upstairs. Resolving to get some work done, I settled down in my own office and started bashing my latest transcript into useable shape, jotting down questions to confirm with Ralf as I went along.

A few hours later, there was a jaunty tap at my door. I looked up to see Ralf standing there in his cycling spandex, looking very pleased with himself. Returning his grin cautiously, I tried very hard not to imagine what was beneath those slightly sweaty cycling shorts, or to think about tugging at the small metal ring of the zipper at his neck.

"So! I have another solution," he announced. "I am practically brimming with solutions this week." Stepping forward, he slipped a slim black object onto the desk in front of me. It took me a few moments to recognise it as an Android handset. "This one is on a contract," he told me. "Unlimited texts, so you can't possibly run out, even during the weekend."

I stared balefully at the phone, trying to think how to sugar-coat this. I didn't even want to touch it, for fear that, like the cursed pomegranate seeds, if I touched a single function on it, I would belong to Klingklang forever. "Ralf, you know I can't accept this," I said very slowly, very carefully.

"You can, and you will," said Ralf jauntily. "Don't worry, it is on a package deal. Everyone who has a work phone through Klingklang gets the same. Now you have one, too." And then, with a self-satisfied grin, he turned and was gone. I stood up to give the thing back to him, but he had disappeared back into his office, probably to shower, and I had no desire to repeat the experience of the previous Friday.

I paged through the phone, looking for its capabilities. Yes, it had internet, and there were a couple of apps - Rheinbahn, a cycling mileage calculator - already installed. There was one entry in the contacts folder, and one message already waiting in my inbox. 'Hallo Katrin! How do you like my gift?'

"Nein," I said out loud. "Das ist nicht in ordnung." Picking it up, I went downstairs. Ralf's gifts were starting to get excessive. First the laptop, then the bike, and now an expensive smartphone? I didn't like it. And if it was a company phone, it was going straight back to Gudrun, to be returned to the shop.

"Hey," I said, walking into her office. >>Good weekend?<<

>>Ja, very nice. My daughter came home from college for a little visit, which was good. How was yours?<<

>>Yes, good, I went cycling up in the Graffenberger Wald, that was nice.<< Pleasantries over, I decided to take the bull by the horns. >>Look. Ralf has just given me a company phone.<<

>>Ooh, good for you<< laughed Gudrun, turning back to her computer.

>>Do I _have_ to have a company phone? What if I don't want one? <<

Gudrun turned back to me with a curious expression. >>Lots of us have one. He likes to be able to get in touch with his people at all times. Well, people he considers to be indispensable, that is. I've got one. Günter's got one, Achim, obviously the lads in the band... funnily enough, Müller's been after one for ages, but he wouldn't order one for her, because he said we already provided her with an iPad. And we only bought her that iPad because she was making such a fuss that Stef had one.<<

This information did not make me feel better. >>Well, what kind of a contract is it? Is it expensive?<< I probed, still feeling very compromised by accepting the gift. >>Is this going to come out of my salary at some point?<<

>>He's probably put you on the Klingklang package, so it's part of a bundle. Don't worry, you won't have to pay for it... so long as you don't go making calls to America or anything. At least, not when you're not on tour. I mean, they are useful to have, while on tour, so we can keep track of everyone. But let's see what package you're on.<< Logging onto the internet, she typed in the username and password for their phone system. A whole string of names popped up attached to phone numbers and payment plans - as she had described, the usual suspects, Fritz, Henning, Falk, herself, Günter, Achim - but my name was not among them. >>Hmm, that's funny. What kind of phone is it?<<

>>Android. I think it's a Galaxy handset...<<

>>Oh... I wonder if Telefonica have made a mistake. His are on the family package. Let me just check...<< She logged out, then typed in another set of credentials. It was really quite amazing, just how many sets of user names and passwords Gudrun seemed to store in her head. Another set of names and numbers popped up. Ralf Hütter 1, with the number I recognised. Ralf Hütter 2, with a number I didn't. Both of them were attached to very old fashioned models, but there were two iPhones listed as well, for Jutta Hütter, and for Katrin Hütter 1. Katrin Hütter 2 was listened with a Samsung Galaxy phone. >>Nope, you're not on there. I suppose if it's new, they haven't put the billing live yet. I'll let you know when you turn up.<<

>>Why does he have two phones, if he hates the things so much?<< I probed.

>>One for work, and one for his family, of course. He likes to be able to turn off his work calls, but still be available to his wife or daughter if they need him. Looks like his daughter is going the same way. I'm guessing that's one for Dad, and one for boyfriends; she's getting to that age.<<

>>Thanks, Gudrun, sorry to trouble you.<< As I stared at the screen, I carefully memorised the Galaxy number. I didn't even wait to get upstairs to check. Of course the number was mine.

Not wanting to face him, I made a cup of tea, and went out to the sun porch to try to think what to do. I didn't know which part bothered me more. The fact that he called me by his daughter's name; or the fact that he had listed me as her on his phone contract. Then again, maybe it was an honest mistake. I knew how annoying it was dealing with German phone companies from trying to top up my own PAYG SIM card. Perhaps he had just mistakenly called me Katrin when purchasing the phone, and they had assumed it was a second phone for the existing Katrin on the contract. But something just still felt very wrong about it, in a way I just couldn't quite put my finger on. It just felt like he was hiding something, though from who I could not quite tell.

My phone dinged in my pocket as I mulled it over. 'Where are you? I've had a shower and I'm ready to start work. I promise no untoward surprises today!'

My first instinct was to ignore the message, but there was no excuse now he paid the bill. 'Just downstairs having a cup of tea. Would you like a coffee?'

'Love one. Danke, Katrin.' There it was again. The pet name just creeped me out, but I couldn't exactly confront him on it without admitting either that I'd been snooping, or that Gudrun had. If things really were not copacetic between Gudrun and Jutta, I didn't want to jump in the middle by revealing that Gudrun had all of his passwords, even the personal ones.

I made him a cup and went upstairs with a heavy heart. But he was in a jovial mood when I got there, grinning at me like a little boy as I set the cup in front of him. "Ah, wonderful, wonderful, yes, thank you. I always like the way you make coffee."

I rolled my eyes, though I had to admit I was flattered by the attention with him sitting there, smirking at me. "It comes from a machine, Ralf. It's always the same."

"Yes, but it tastes sweeter when you bring it to me." His eyes actually twinkled as he said it. For a moment, I wanted to tell him to knock it off, that this was flirting, and it was definitely not OK, but just the way he smiled at me when he said it, that seemed to make it alright. I blushed slightly and shook my head.

"Do you want to interview today, or go over the edits?"

"Interview," he supplied. "I have been thinking of things I want to tell you, all weekend."

I went back and got the recorder, and set it up in the usual way in front of him on this desk. He was in an expansive mood, nostalgic and slightly flirtatious, walking back through his memories, telling me of old girlfriends, at college, and in the early days of Kraftwerk. I suppose in a way, he was compensating, trying to show me that despite his lonely schooldays, he had not been a lonely adult. Being in a band had been good for him, it had increased his confidence and made him more attractive to the women of Düsseldorf, and even America. But there seemed to be something else to the anecdotes, a subtle kind of flirtation. In telling me about the women he dated, he seemed to be trying to tell me something about himself. He insisted that he had prided himself in dating artistic women, creative women: an actress, then a designer, once even a poet. He eyed me slyly, with the hint of a smile. "A lot of things have been put around, about us. It's not as if we dated only brainless models. This is simply not true. Flori liked clever girls; intelligence was a turn-on for him. But me, I liked artistic girls. Creative girls."

I almost laughed at how pathetically obvious he was being. But instead, I changed the subject, tried to gently remind him that I was not here to be flirted with. "What about your wife? What does she do?"

He smiled tightly, then looked down at the desk. The subtle admonishment had hit home. "My wife was a nurse, when we met. Though she stopped working when she became a mother. Now, she mostly concentrates on charitable work."

"The benevolent ladies and the refugees," I supplied.

"Precisely so. You have a good memory." He folded his hands gently, then crossed his legs under the desk. "That is for your information, but I would prefer to keep my family out of the book as much as possible. The ones who are alive, they would prefer to remain private."

"Just a couple of lines," I suggested. "Background information."

"Yes, that might be OK, we'll see."

Ralf was in such a chatty mood that the interview went on for several hours, without me having to prompt him, or pull information out of him. Occasionally, I went back and asked a few more questions about bits I wanted him to clear up, but for the most part, the interview flowed very naturally, and very easily. When Ralf was in a good mood, sometimes it didn't even feel like an interview, it just felt like a long, soul-searching fireside chat with an old friend.

Albeit an old friend that flirted. As the weeks went on, there was a definite increase to the moments when even I could get the sense that I was being flirted with, though why, I could not always tell. It wasn't just the little compliments - though it was obvious that the compliments were little offerings intended to please me - as he complimented Gudrun's stylish silver jewellery or Müller's extravagent hair colours in the same way. It was the moments that he teased me, or seemed to take pleasure in provoking some response, as I found it hard to tell if he was just playing with me, or if he was genuinely being critical.

For example, he came in one day, to find me sitting in the kitchen, chatting away with Müller, and Rudi, who was trying to get us to sample some spicy Indian delicacy his mother had prepared for his lunch. I was quite delighted with the tiny but deadly bird-eye chillies that peppered his naan bread. Müller, puffed up with bravado, insisted on bluffing her way through eating one, though it was obvious from her bright red face that she was finding it tough.

Ralf, though, cast a warning eye over Rudi's lunch. >>Be careful of these gifts, you ladies... I would not go eating Rudi's lunches if you wish to keep your tongue in one piece.<<

>>Ah, go on, they're nice, boss! Give it a try<< laughed Rudi, fishing out a chilli the size of his little finger.

>>Thank you, no.<< He declined the offer, then turned to me. "We will have a meeting upstairs, if you please? Now, or in a few minutes is fine."

I stood up and thanked Rudi for the treat, but as I followed Ralf upstairs, I simply forgot to switch back to English, asking him in German >>Why are the Germans so afraid of spicy food? Even the English have learned to eat a curry, but for you lot...<< It had finally become natural, switching to 'euch' for a plural 'you'. >>Will a chilli naan kill you?<<

He didn't answer straightaway, but when we got up to his office, I saw that he was smirking at me so intensely, that I simply asked "Was ist los?"

>>Your German is very much improved<< he half chuckled, looking at me as if over the top of a pair of glasses. >>You can even tell _euch_ from _dich_ now. <<

I smiled back, and could not resist the opportunity to pat myself on the back a little. >>Well, yes, I have improved, since I have the chance to use it every day...<<

But he couldn't seem to resist the urge to poke fun back. >>Of course, your accent is still very much somewhere over the English Channel...<< His eyes twinkling, he drawled "Hwass ist lass?"

>>I do not speak like that<< I protested.

>>You do<< he insisted, with a decided grin. >>You have a very cute little English accent.<<

>>I do not!<<

"Ick ssssspray-ker nicked so." I must have absolutely glared at him, because he started to laugh outright now. "It is adorable, actually. English accents are most attractive."

"But I don't talk like that. And anyway, look who's talking. You've been speaking English longer than I've been alive, and you still talk like 'vee vill haff duh meeting upztairs, iv you pleats,'" I shot right back, my eyes flashing.

It was only at that moment that I knew for certain that he was flirting, because rather than being offended or taken aback at my unkind imitation of him, his whole face crinkled up in a charming little-boy grin, as if he found the whole thing very amusing. "Vaht vill ve ever do vit wahn anutter," he teased, and I could definitely hear that he was putting it on slightly.

I flushed, really not sure of how to respond now. Flirting was one of those life skills I was incredibly bad at, because I was never quite sure if one was supposed to _mean_ it or not. "Ick wise es nicked."

>>I am teasing you<< he said, as if this were in any doubt. >>I have always liked the English.<< But then his eyes flashed again. >>And English accents are very sexy. When I was young, I always wanted an English girlfriend. For the accent.<<

I had to turn away to cover my blush. >>Well, you ended up instead with a German wife<< I reminded him slightly pointedly. >>Now I think we should get to work, Herr Hütter.<<

 

 

The good mood lasted all week. I think, maybe, it was beginning to ride his cycle again that made Ralf so calm and so even-tempered, not so tense or demanding. It certainly helped my mood, I found, flying into Klingklang on a wave of euphoria after racing down those country lanes. Ralf and I fell into a good rythym, between our interviews and our edits. It was actually starting to be quite enjoyable, working with him, as I got used to his moods and his quirky sense of humour. Even the occasional flirtation, I learned to relax and enjoy. Günter's assertion had reassured me. I really wasn't Ralf's type; it was perfectly safe to flatter him a little. In fact, it became like a game we both enjoyed.

The text messages, too, reached a steady rhythm. I learned quickly that if I replied the first time, or indeed, if I sent him a text message first, he would be satisfied with that, and not continue to pester me with repeated requests for attention. And actually, I started occasionally to enjoy a little drawn-out text conversation, especially if we were both watching the same television programme. I had no idea what his family must have thought, sitting there while Ralf texted away to me, after all of his little sermons about Handys and how bad they were. But then again, considering how he had complained about Jutta and Katrin and their iPhones, it was entirely possible that they were nattering away to their friends on Facebook, and they were relieved that Ralf was no longer giving sermons and just having text-based conversations of his own.

Deutschland, too, seemed to accept me and become a little more welcoming. A letter arrived from the bank, saying that they had accepted my proof of address, and would open a savings account in my name. Although they did not trust me with a chequebook or a credit card, a shiny cash-card arrived in my name, and a three digit balance arrived in my account, courtesy of Klingklang. Since a bank card was the most universally recognised form of ID, finally Germany seemed prepared to acknowledge that I existed and was a person. And life got a little easier when one became a legal person.

 

 

Over the following week, life at Klingklang reached what felt like a feverish pitch for that slow, steady, careful German organisation. I had almost forgotten the South American tour, but Ralf kept getting called away to do run-through rehearsals down in the hall. Slightly intimidating engineers arrived, up from Stuttgart, to test the sound reinforcement system, to make sure it was roadworthy for touring, and the whole studio turned out to check out whatever new sound-design toys they might have brought with them.

Since I'd run out of transcription to do, I went down to watch, sitting behind the crew as if I was having my own private performance. It was a little strange, having gone my entire life without ever having seen Kraftwerk perform, and then seeing them six times in one week, but it felt a little bit like a baptism of fire. The soundman in particular loved to show off his three-dimensional system, turning around to leer at Müller and I through his thick geek glasses, as he demonstrated how he could rotate an instrument right around the outskirts of the rehearsal hall. Ralf's voice was supposed to be panned just slightly left of centre, aligned with where he stood onstage, but using some arcane piece of software on an iPad, he played tricks with the panning effects as Ralf sang, making it sound as if Ralf were walking around the room, disappearing before turning up again behind us, and then finally doubling Ralf so that he seemed to be on both sides of us at once.

"Cool, huh?" he asked, turning back around to grin at us, and I was inclined to agree with him, before Müller cut me off.

>>Don't encourage him<< she snorted, rolling her eyes.

>>Wait until you hear what I do with Autobahn<< he boasted, then addressed the band through the talkback monitor, suggesting they run through that song next.

Autobahn, to be fair, sounded incredible. He started playing with the traffic noises, routing them around the hall, so that I could close my eyes and almost feel wind from the cars passing by.

When the song was over, Ralf came down from the stage, and shook hands with the terrifying engineer from Stuttgart. He, the engineer and the soundman all discussed so carefully, exactly the sounds they wanted, and their placement within the hall, and just how much reverb to put on each sound. I knew a little bit about sound engineering, just from having been in a band myself, and also from watching my father provide sound reinforcement at folk clubs and festivals. But this was like a whole new world; these guys genuinely were sound obsessives, getting very excited about tiny differences in delay times.

Not that it was all serious, by any means! Once the terrifying engineer left, the band and crew seemed to relax and start to banter among themselves. It was strange to see the group talk, and even joke, back and forth with one another, as they ran through the songs, in stark opposition with their reputation for stiff, expressionless performances. That was the one thing I truly wished I could capture in the book, but Ralf kept editing out: just how _funny_ Kraftwerk could be, in utter opposition to their po-faced public image. My overwhelming memory of those first few weeks at Klingklang was laughter. Fritz and Henning, in particular, seemed to enjoy trying to crack one another up. Henning could be quite jolly, especially when he and Fritz started riffing off one another, but Ralf's rumbling laughter took me by surprise. Once or twice, he even slipped in comical amendments, either to the melodies, or the words, as if testing who was paying attention.

I never quite got a "now she's a big success, I want to _fuck_ her again". But once, Ralf interrupted the middle section of Autobahn with a spirited burst of "Ba-ba-ba, Barbara-Ann" before segueing seamlessly back into the proper lyrics. And at another rehearsal, during the rhythmic break-down of Pocket Calculator, Fritz added a slightly Latin feel on percussion, so Henning, who was a keen musical mimic, suddenly burst into the melody of the Macarena. 

Ralf looked up for a moment, startled, then cupped his hand to his mic to attempt a near note-perfect rendition of the Spanish lyrics, as Henning actually bashed out a fairly passable version of the bassline. The three of them continued on like that for two or three minutes, with Falk openly gaping and looking quite confused. The light show on the glowing podiums sputtered, and the overhead projections went into a strange glitch-like loop, as I realised exactly how _live_ their performance actually was. Eventually, Fritz attempted a piss-take of the dance, and the music ground to a stop, as the entire studio collapsed in laughter.

>>Well<< said Ralf, with a sly grin as the band tried to pull themselves back together. >>Maybe we change our set a little for our Latin American audience?<<

Müller usually came and sat with me, in between having to dash off and reconnect wires or reboot a recalcitrant operating system. If this new, digital equipment was supposed to be so much more reliable, I couldn't imagine what touring with the old, analogue synths must have been like. As they worked together on the live show, I got more of a sense of who did what. Although all of the techs kicked in together to attend to whatever needed doing, it seemed Müller worked primarily on the computerised instruments on the podiums, while Robbo fussed over the amplification and the special sound reinforcement equipment from Stuttgart, and Rudi, with his background in television, mostly worked on the 3D projectors, the glowing filaments of the podiums, and other visual aspects of the performance.

Müller and I often cycled home together, at least as far as the Oberkasseler Bridge. Once or twice, I even caught her in the morning, seeing her robin's egg blue hair come flying up the bridge approach. Unfortunately, she always made me actually cycle over the bridge, instead of pushing my bike up the ramps. She was impressed by how far my confidence had come, in only a few weeks; in fact she laughed at how aggro I got if some 'Lycra-clad berk on a bike' tried to overtake me. For this, she had been teaching me some good German swears, and getting in my way was a guaranteed way of earning an ear-piercing "Hauen Sie an!" (She, in turn, loved 'Lycra-clad berk on a bike' and it fast became the one English phrase she could be relied on to produce in most circumstances.)

Two days before we were due to leave, Gudrun called a staff meeting, and handed out itineraries as we all gathered around the kitchen table.

>>Technicians and roadies, I need you here tomorrow afternoon to pack up the gear and get it shipped off. Band and support staff, you don't need to be here tomorrow, so go home and get a good night's sleep - but remember you need to get to the airport at least three hours before the flight. I will be doing a headcount in the departure lounge, so don't be late.<<

Someone cackled and pointed very specifically towards Fritz, calling out >>Try not to get arrested, speeding to the airport, Hilpert!<<

>>Right. You all know the dress code by now. We've had crew T-shirts re-printed, ask for your size if you need a new one... Just don't give them away to your girlfriends, OK?<<

>>I don't know the dress code<< I whispered to Müller, who was perched on the arm of my chair.

>>Katrin doesn't know the dress code!<< Müller called out. Try as I might to stop the German nickname from sticking, it had caught on among the crew.

Gudrun sighed deeply as some of the less socially skilled techies stared at me. >>Black trousers. They can be work pants, cargo pants, jeans - but no sweats or track-pants. Crew T-shirt - come and find me and I'll get you a couple - and a black bomber jacket, though it's summer in South America, so you might not need that.<<

>>Can we get the girls to wear miniskirts on this tour maybe?<< piped up the soundman, leering across the table. >>It would be good to get a nicer view.<<

I rolled my eyes, but Müller rose to the occasion, plopping her Doc Marten-clad legs up on the table. >>You guys wanna see my legs, just ask, but I warn you, you'll be seeing them about 100km an hour, from the boot-end.<<

>>That's enough, Müller and Stef. I know you two are the youngest members of the crew by about 30 years, but there is no need to act like children. Any other questions?<< Gudrun handled the unruly techs sweetly, but quite firmly.

Müller flashed me a triumphant grin, so I felt a little bold, piping up to ask. >>Can we bring our bikes?<<

The entire room collapsed in laughter, as Rudi reached over to pat me on the back. >>She's one of us now<< he said approvingly, even as some of the others started to joke about those lessons in the parking lot paying off. News travelled fast in Klingklang; it seemed _everyone_ knew about my private cycling lessons.

>>No, you can not bring your bikes<< sighed Gudrun, though I could she was trying very hard not to laugh. >>I will investigate the options for cycle hire in Santiago and Buenos Aires, though, if anyone is interested.<<

The meeting was over, as the different sections of the crew gathered into clumps to discuss packing up. I flicked through the itinerary, then joined the brief queue to get a crew T-shirt. OK, that, I had to admit, was pretty exciting. I'd never worn a crew T-shirt before.

>>What size do you want? Sorry, but we've not got much in the way of ladies' sizes.<< said Gudrun apologetically.

>>That's fine. I don't wear ladies' clothes anyway. Just give me a men's large.<<

Gudrun looked me up and down. >>I don't think you'll need a large. They're pretty big.<<

>>I wear a large<< I laughed, looking down at Gudrun, who looked like she probably fit an extra small. >>Even in men's clothes. Trust me.<<

>>Why don't you take a medium, and go and try it on, then come back if you really do need a large.<<

It was absurd, I thought, as I trooped off to the ladies' room, but I decided to indulge her, just to prove my point. As I stripped off my shirt, I saw that my trousers were sagging a little, so I cinched up the belt one more hole. That was funny; I hadn't had any baggy trousers when I moved to Düsseldorf, but now they all seemed to be coming loose. I pulled the Medium shirt over my head, expecting to have to fight my way into it, but it fit me just fine. A little snug around the breasts, but it hugged my shoulders perfectly, and settled nicely on my hips. Since when I had been a medium? Well, since a couple of weeks of cycling, it seemed. That was totally bizarre. But then again, maybe German men's sizes were just cut really huge. Still, it was embarrassing to have to go back to Gudrun and tell her, actually, yes, she was right, another Medium would do.


	17. Turbulence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrin and Ralf spend their first night together, thanks to another of his unwelcome little gifts, and Katrin starts to feel all of her professional boundaries blurring and melting away.

Bright and early, I left my new home on the Berger Allee and headed out to the airport to join the group for the tour. I had stuffed my things into a small suitcase, and carefully printed my eTicket and tucked it into my passport. Unfortunately, I wasn't allowed to cycle to the airport. I had to take a tram, and overestimated the time required, now that my expectations of how much time journeys took had been warped by cycling. Since I arrived hours early at the airport, I joined the queue and checked my baggage, but when I moved through into the departure area, I could see no one from Klingklang.

Gudrun and Günter arrived first, so I went over and sat with them, as excited as a little girl, already wearing my 'crew' T-shirt under the new padded black bomber jacket I'd bought to fit in. As we were sitting waiting for the rest of the crew, and Günter was telling stories about trying to get through Customs in 1981, with the whole Computer World stage set, mannequins and all, packed up in huge metal flight cases, my phone pinged in my pocket.

A text from Ralf, of course. "Where are you?"

"In the departure lounge with Gudrun and Günter. How soon will you be with us?"

"No, I am here already. Come through into the First Class Lounge with me."

I checked my eTicket just to make sure he hadn't done anything stupid, like book me a first class ticket, but no. I had a standard class seat. "I can't come into the First Class Lounge, Ralf, I don't have a First Class Ticket."

"Just wait there a minute. I'll sort it."

"Don't you DARE book me a first class ticket..." I started to type, but Gudrun's phone started to ring in her bag.

>>Oops, hang on, I'm ringing.<< She picked it up. >>Hallo, Ralf. Everything OK?<< I couldn't hear the other half of the conversation, but she suddenly looked a little put out. >>No, of course I didn't. Why would I? You didn't ask me to.<< I cringed, as I realised what he was likely on about. >>Well... you need to tell me these things in advance. Let me speak to the Lufthansa staff, I'll see what I can do.<< As she hung up her phone, I could see her looking at me quite strangely. >>Come with me... bring your passport.<<

I did as I was told, not entirely understanding what was going on, until I got to the service desk. There, Gudrun produced a credit card, and started asking for an upgrade, for Herr Hütter's secretary and suddenly I realised that this was about to be one of those unasked for, unwanted little gifts of Ralf's.

>>Wait, wait, I don't want to go first class<< I protested limply.

>>Ralf wants you sitting by him, and there is no way that Ralf will ever go standard class. So you get an upgrade, whether you like it or not<< she said, a little snippily.

I absolutely cringed. It really didn't seem fair, especially considering all of the work that Gudrun had put towards putting the tour together. >>You mean, Ralf goes first class by himself, while the rest of the crew go tourist... what about the band?<<

Gudrun looked at me like I was an idiot. >>Fritz and Henning ride with the crew. They used to be crew, so they always have.<<

>>So he rides up there by himself?<<

>>Well, Florian used to go First Class, back in the day. Then Jutta and Katrin used to sit with him, at least until Katrin came of school age.<< Now there was a real edge to her voice. >>But apparently he's not going to be alone up there, now. He wants you with him.<<

>>But I don't want to be bumped up... what if I don't want to ride with Ralf?<<

>>It's his choice, not yours<< she reminded me, which seemed to be a common refrain around Ralf.

But the attendant interrupted us, as she had already started to put the change through. >>The seat next to Herr Hütter is already taken. But I could move them both upstairs. Would that be alright? Yes? Window or Aisle, any preference?<<

>>Herr Hütter always has an aisle seat. You can give Kate the window.<< Gudrun supplied.

>>Very well. Here are the two new boarding passes with the correct seat reservations. Will you deliver this to to Herr Hütter, Frau...<< She looked down at my ticket, frowning as she realised I was not the wife. >>Well, enjoy your upgrade and have a pleasant flight.<<

My face burned with shame as I trooped through, with a heavy heart, into the first class lounge. Ralf was sitting towards the front, engrossed in a newspaper, so I wandered over, plonked myself down next to him, and held out the new boarding pass between the paper and his face.

"Ah, Katrin," he said, beaming when he saw me, and folding up the newspaper. "This is much better, yes?"

I felt like a mistress, that was the only way I could describe the mixture of guilt and snatched pleasure. Really, I wished I could have just viewed myself as some lucky fairy god-child, and relaxed and just enjoyed the luxury with which I was suddenly surrounded. But I could not help thinking of the crew, and how they would react to this sudden change in status; not least because I had originally been booked to sit next to Müller.

Ralf was excited when he realised we would be sitting upstairs, and wanted me to share in his childlike joy, but I just couldn't relax. I kept expecting someone to come along and chuck me out again. We were offered complimentary champagne, though Ralf asked instead for coffee. Honestly, I hoped he did not plan on staying up, all through the overnight flight, but to my relief, after dinner (we both received vegetarian meals) he produced earplugs, a sleep mask and a blanket, and lowered his seat almost flat. Unfortunately, this meant that I, trapped in the window seat, could not get out. I had to crawl underneath him to use the toilet, then crawl back in again.

Finally, after reading a few chapters of a very wordy German novel, I reclined my seat and tried to get some rest. At this, he turned over to face me, then stirred, and raised his sleep mask. He was so close I could see his beard coming in, all grey over his chin, as he smirked at me. "Well. This is a bit exciting. I must say, it is certainly a nicer view than the businessmen I usually get stuck next to."

"Stop it," I told him. He glanced up, and I saw that there was actually a partition like an extended arm-rest that one could pull down to separate the beds, but neither of us made the faintest move to reach for it.

He let out a breathy little laugh, then for a split second, reached out and cupped my chin, lightly, like you would a child or a pet, before retracting his hand so quickly I almost thought I imagined it. "Gute Nacht."

"Guten acht," I replied.

The ghost of a nostalgic smile. "That's what Florian always used to say."

"He had a very good sense of humour, then," I replied with a smirk.

"I suppose you would much rather take a long distance flight with Flori beside you, then," he teased.

"No, I would rather that Florian was in this seat, so that you two could whisper to one another over the arm-rest, and I was back home in my bed asleep."

"Do you not like travelling? You don't find it exciting?" I noticed that he very deftly changed the subject off Florian quite quickly, even though he was the one who had brought him up.

"I like travelling. I hate flying."

Ralf pulled a wry face. "I do, too, to be perfectly honest. But there is no other way to the Americas, except boat, which takes too long."

"I don't know. You could hire some space on a container ship, and set up Klingklang in its entirety, so you could work and rehearse the whole passage over."

"Sounds delightful. I'll ask Gudrun to look into it. I rather think Günter would make a very dashing ship's captain, don't you?"

"Or you. Admiral Hütter; I could see it."

"You joke, but do you know, my father's cousin was a U-boat captain, during the war?"

I stared at him, surprised by the sudden admission, as he never spoke about his family, especially not his father's side. "Can I put that in the book?" I asked.

"Absolutely not." A breathy laugh and a tilt of his eyebrow. "What about your family? I suppose they were all on the other side, in the war?"

Again, the question took me by surprise. Ralf almost never asked me about myself, and certainly never asked me about my family or my background. For the most part, I appreciated the lack of prying, but the sudden interest seemed to highlight his usual obliviousness to the fact that I even had a background, prior to my meeting him.

"One branch of the family was in the RAF," I told him. "Another branch did something very mysterious in North Africa. My Mum said my Grandfather never, ever talked about it, so we assumed it must have been something pretty high-up."

Ralf's eyes twinkled with interest. "A little espionage? Or perhaps even code-breaking?"

"There is definitely code-breaking and espionage in the family. My Great-Aunt worked at Bletchley Park," I said proudly.

That definitely caught his interest, as his whole face lit up. "So that, too, is in the family? Ladies of the Computer? I am most impressed. I wonder what other secrets you are hiding from me."

"I'm not hiding anything. You never asked," I teased, but he fell silent, just looking at me as if only just starting to realise that I contained hidden depths he'd never even guessed at.

Even after we let the conversation drift off and tried to go to bed, neither of us slept much. At first, I tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable in the weird bed. But every time I rolled over, Ralf would ask me if I was asleep, and I'd roll back to face him, and we'd have another two-minute conversation about how much we hated flying.

Somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, we hit a bad patch of turbulence, which was quite scary, jolting us both back to full consciousness. As the plane was batted this way and that by gusts of winds, the two of us edged closer together in our little cocoons, faces only inches apart. I ended up staring at him in a way that would have been impolite in any other situation, but somehow, with this constant background worry that this tiny metal tube might be torn apart at any moment, the normal rules of politeness seemed relaxed.

I studied his skin, the faint ghost of freckles across his wide temples, his tiny pores, the lines around his eyes, the pattern of hair where his hairline was receding. It didn't go all at once, that was the fascinating part. There was a sort of soft growth of short, baby-fine hairs over the edge of the ostensibly bald area, a fuller hair here and there, thickening along a strip of his forehead into thick, brown-blond growth on the crown of his head. He had obviously just had his hair dyed for the tour, and it was quite dark, almost geometrically cut to follow the line of his cheekbone. I studied the line of his eyebrows, much fuller and a bit wilder than they had been in his youth, but still a very straight, very precise arch underlining his forehead. It was an odd thing to fix on, I knew, but despite the occasional rogue hair, he had absolutely perfect eyebrows. It didn't really seem fair.

But abruptly, the plane wrenched and twisted, and leapt about five feet up and to the right, scattering stray belongings and shifting all of the luggage in the overhead compartments. Ralf's eyes snapped wide open. "Katrin, bist du da?" he blurted out, reaching for me.

I took his hand very gently, and stroked it. "Ich bin ja da."

The plane juddered back to the left, and then dropped sharply, leaving an empty sensation in my stomach. "I hate this turbulence," he offered, by way of explanation, but he did not withdraw his hand.

"Me, too," I said, continuing to stroke the back of his hand. I was terrified, but I didn't want to show it, so I concentrated instead on his skin; the tiny, very fine, pale blond hairs on the back of his knuckles; the way that his piano-player's tendons stood up proud of his knuckles. As the plane started to dart about like a bit of paper caught in a fan, I desperately wanted to cling to something, but instead I just held on to Ralf's hand.

"Each time, I think this is the last time I will ever get in one of these wretched vehicles. And then they offer us another show, a bigger festival, more prestige, and I find myself doing it all over again. Maybe I'm hooked on the adrenaline."

"Maybe you're hooked on the adulation," I countered, tracing little whorls in his knuckles.

"This too," he conceded with a smile. "Have you ever been on the stage?" I nodded, smiling wryly. "Then you know, nothing comes close to the love that comes off a crowd."

"I think it has a habit of making musicians into monsters. There's no one human being that can live up to it," I confessed.

"You don't think so? You don't think that staring into the eyes of one woman, a woman who truly loves you... who knows you completely, faults and all, and still truly accepts and loves you... You don't think that compares?" It was a startling, almost painfully honest thing for Ralf to tell me, possibly one of the most intimate things he'd ever confessed, but I just didn't know what to do with it.

"I wouldn't know," I said softly. "I have never been loved like that."

A look of pain crossed Ralf's face, followed by something like compassion. "You don't have a boyfriend - or a girlfriend - back in London, waiting for you?"

"If I did, do you think I would have been able to just get on a train and move to Düsseldorf, almost overnight?"

"I suppose I should have known, since you didn't even ask how to get a partner visa or anything like that." The plane shuddered, but then righted itself, as Ralf stared at me, as if noticing me for the first time, a new light appearing in his eyes, though whether it was understanding or curiosity, I found it hard to tell. "I've just realised something about you," he said softly.

I resisted the urge to say something flippant, like he'd never noticed anything about me before that didn't somehow refer back to him. Instead I shrugged lightly. "What?"

"When you were writing so achingly and so beautifully, about how lonely I must have been at school... I suppose... well, yes, I was rather lonely as a boy. But I'm not lonely now. I have my family, my colleagues. But when you write about this loneliness, it's not about my loneliness. It's yours."

"I'm not particularly lonely," I lied. "I have friends. In England, in the States, and I'm starting to make friends in Germany." Or, at least I had been starting to, until my sudden promotion from crew to... what even was I? Secretary? Ghostwriter? Concubine? He still had not let go my hand, as the plane rolled back and forth, buffeted by the winds.

"But you really have never known, what it's like to have a lover look at you like that... like they know you completely, and yet accept you anyway?"

I just stared back at him, not really knowing what to say. It had been so long since anyone had loved me at all... I couldn't really remember what it was like, even to be loved conditionally. But as to being completely understood? I didn't think anyone had _ever_ understood me. No one had ever really tried.

But Ralf reached out and gently placed his free hand on top of mine, sandwiching it with both hands as he gently patted it. "Oh, Katrin, some day, someone will love you like that."

"It's a bit late for that, now," I said, a little too casually, wanting to roll over and turn away from him so he didn't see a tear forming in the corner of my eyes. But abruptly, the plane rolled alarmingly, the right side of the cabin dipping several feet below the left before the left dropped to meet it with a stomach-churning lurch.

A soft tone sounded, and a voice came over the loudspeaker, repeating the same message in German, Spanish and English. >>We're sorry for the turbulence you are experiencing, ladies and gentlemen. We've just spoken to air traffic control, and we've got permission to climb another thousand feet, and hopefully we'll get above this storm system. Just make sure your seatbelts are fastened. If you are asleep, please fasten your belts on the outsides of your blankets, so our flight attendants can check as they walk the aisles. Thank you for your patience, and good night.<<

Ralf looked about him, checking that his seatbelt was visible, then turned back to me, his eyes huge in the half dark. "Do you ever think about death?" he asked, out of nowhere.

"That's an awfully philosophical question. Isn't that the sort of question I'm supposed to ask you?" I replied, avoiding answering at all.

"I'm an old man. I think about death all the time. But I have already come very close to death, which kind of makes one lose one's fear a little bit. It's quite pleasant, closing one's eyes and slipping into the black. Opening one's eyes, and waking up to all the pain and the horror, that is awful and fearful. But slipping away, that's easy."

I stared at him. What a time for him to tell me this, when I had no tape recorder, no note pad. Or maybe that was why he had told me. "So your cycling accident was as serious as people said it was." He nodded vaguely, biting his lip. "So why do you downplay it?"

"Because I'm German. What am I supposed to do? Tell people I was in a coma for three days, and woke with a tube down my nose, and a hole in my head? Of course I downplay it. One does not want to make a fuss."

"I think when you're about to die, it's alright to make a little fuss."

"That's not very British," he quipped, but then looked around him. "The plane is climbing. I think the turbulence has stopped. We are not going to die on this journey, not yet at least."

"I wouldn't say that. The tour has barely started." He smiled in response, but I could see that he was exhausted, and already starting to slip off. I closed my eyes, and this time, I finally slept.

I had still been holding his hand when I drifted off, but when I awoke we had both retreated back to our own little bundles. I could see nothing but the top of his head, his hair sticking out at right angles above the blanket. Although I wanted to reach out and smooth it down, I knew that I shouldn't. Something told me that the hand-holding incident was something that would never be mentioned again.

The air hostess came round with hot drinks, and I caught her eye. >>Coffee or tea?<< she repeated in about three languages.

>>Coffee for him, tea for me, please<< I replied in German, straightening up my chair.

>>Milk and sugar?<< It still pleased me when someone responded to me in German, instead of instantly switching to English.

>>Milk, no sugar for me. Sugar, no milk for him. It is filter, not instant, yes?<< I felt like his PA as I sorted it out for him, placing it on my table while he slept.

>>Of course. Will you be having breakfast?<<

I ordered vegetarian breakfast for us both, but Ralf was beginning to stir. As his tousled head reappeared beneath the blanket, I found his coffee and wafted it near his nose. His eyes opened very quickly, bleary, but engaged.

Rolling over and sitting up slightly, he took the coffee, grinning at me. "How do they say in England? You are a star."

"Thank you. When you've had a bit, do you think you could let me out, to go to the loo?" I suggested quietly.

Ralf smirked at me slightly too salaciously. "You can climb over me. I don't mind."

I just stared back at him. He took a sip from the coffee, placed it on my tray table, then moved his seat just upright enough for me to get by. Still, I couldn't quite do it without touching him, our legs and knees mashed together. I half expected there to be an electric shock, but there was nothing; just the vague warmth of flesh on flesh.

We had about an hour after breakfast, then the plane started its descent into Mexico City. I stared out the window, enraptured by how green it was. I had always been under the vague impression that Mexico was half desert, but the landscape beneath us looked lush.

"Will we get any time off to explore the city?" I asked, peering down at the miles and miles of streets rushing up to greet us.

"I don't know; we might. We will play on Sunday evening, but we might have the day free. It depends on how many interviews or meetings I may have to do."

I wondered if he would actually make me attend, and sit through other journalists' interviews. "I'd love to see the Blue House, if we have time."

"The Blue House?" said Ralf, but then he seemed to fetch the appropriate memory. "Ah, Frida Kahlo. Yes, I would love to see this, too. I will find out, if there is time."

We landed without incident, though I sucked in my breath, and clung very hard to the arm-rest as the plane came in on the approach. Flesh touched mine, a finger extended towards me, and I realised without even looking, that he had hooked his pinkie through mine. It wasn't quite holding hands, but, still, it was a nice gesture. Reassuring.

Of course, since we were in first class, we ended up being first off the plane. Ralf was impatient, but we had to wait for the rest of the crew, to attempt to pass immigration, as Gudrun and Günter were holding the work visas. We went through the queue in a large, black-clad gaggle, as Gudrun tried to distribute the appropriate papers to everyone as they approached the booth.

Although we were supposed to go through one by one, when it came our turn, Ralf seized my arm, and pulled me up to the gate with him. He took my passport from me, and handed the two through together, with our papers. The documents were fed into a machine, and we had to remove our glasses and look very straight, without blinking, into a camera, then scan our thumbprints, until the computer was satisfied that we were who said we were. But the immigration official noticed the different nationalities and different surnames on the passports.

"Is this your wife?" he asked in clipped English, confused, looking back and forth between us. We must have made an odd couple, the reserved businessman and the feisty redhead.

"No she is my personal assistant," insisted Ralf.

"I'm not..." I was about to protest, when he squeezed my arm very firmly. I shut up, and the official casually glanced through our visas.

"Purpose of your visit?"

"Business," said Ralf. "I am a musician. My group is to perform at a festival."

"Ah, the Corona Capital," said the official, and stamped our passports. "Welcome to Mexico. Enjoy the festival, and have a good performance." And that was it, we were through. After the usual performance to try to enter the States, I was shocked by how simple it was.

But as I turned to him to thank him, he started to breeze off. "Now I am going to find the First Class Lounge, to freshen up after the flight. You will go and wait with the rest of the crew at the luggage claim, yes?"

It wasn't even a request, it was a command again. The thought that I might want to freshen up in the First Class Lounge hadn't even crossed his mind. His rudeness sometimes just completely staggered me, as he dismissed me as if I were a servant. Well, just see if I hold your hand on any more landings, mister, I thought to myself, and shuffled off to rejoin the rest of the party, gathering near the baggage reclaim.

>>So how was first class?<< asked Müller, a little snidely.

>>I paid for the upgrade in other ways<< I replied, a little cryptically, then quickly added, before anyone got the wrong idea. >>He's very... Christ, well, he needs a lot of attention, doesn't he?<<

Gudrun and Günter exchanged glances, as the various techs jostled for the best view of the luggage shoot. >>That used to be my job, a long time ago<< said Gudrun quietly. >>You are welcome to it.<<

For a moment, I considered asking her if her duties had included hand-holding during turbulence, but thought better of it. >>If he tries to pull some nonsense with the hotel room, trying to move me into his suite... well, I'm putting my foot down this time.<<

>>Don't worry<< laughed Gudrun. >>You are rooming with Müller. It's such a relief that we can stick you two together on this tour. Every time we've tried to put one of the lads in with her, something always goes wrong.<<

>>Not my fault Stef couldn't take a little practical joking.<< Müller cracked.

I looked at her sternly. >>If you try to prank me, I will actually physically kill you.<<

>>No worries, girlfriend, I know you're not an asshole. Oh, hang on, here comes the luggage... Whose is first? Oh my god, is that actually Hütter's? His always comes first. How does he do it?<<

>>First Class always comes out first<< Günter insisted, as he and a couple of the other roadies started to pull our cases off the belt. Mine wasn't with Ralf's, it was with the rest of the crew's, as I'd checked in before my upgrade.

By the time Ralf reappeared, freshly shaven and strictly parted, we had several trolleys of suitcases, but I still wondered where all of the musical gear had got to. But when we got out to the kerb, a quick headcount revealed that there were eleven of us - far too many to go in even a minibus. But as it turned out, we were splitting up into two teams. Günter, after a brief mobile phone conversation in broken Spanish, was going to round up the techies to go in one busload to the air freight depot to secure the equipment, while Gudrun and the band went to the hotel with the luggage, to check everyone in.

>>Where do I go?<< I asked, as Müller shuffled over to join Günter's group.

>>Hotel. You're with us<< supplied Gudrun.

Müller turned around and tossed me her carry-on rucksack. >>Look after this for me, will you? See you back at the hotel!<<


	18. La Casa Azul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf and Katrin go exploring in Mexico City, as they start to get to know another personally, outside of work. But already, social media and technology start to cause friction.

Gudrun had hotel check-ins down to an exact science, getting Ralf sorted first, then shuttling the various band members into their rooms (the journalist in me noted that Henning and Fritz roomed together while Falk bunked with Stef, the soundman) before lining up the extra suitcases to be assigned to the other techs' rooms, for when they returned. I was relieved to get my roomkey next, as I desperately wanted to go and take a shower and change my clothes, but Gudrun reminded me we would all meet up for dinner that evening.

Oh! The relief of hot water and clean clothes. I was feeling so relaxed that I took the bed by the bathroom, and let Müller have the better bed by the window - and more importantly, the air conditioner. But as I was going through my suitcase, wondering what to unpack and what to leave, my phone buzzed in my bag. The Android phone, of course, as I'd been sensible enough to leave the iPhone at home, but unfortunately that meant Ralf. For fucks sake, was I not allowed even one afternoon off?

It was as if we hadn't even left Klingklang. There was his room number, and a request for me to text back, then come up as soon as I was settled. What, did he expect to carry on with the book, right through the whole tour? Sure, I had actually brought the recording device in anticipation of getting some interesting tour titbits, but I had no intention of spending the entire week transcribing. Trying to keep the irritation out of my tone, I texted back that I'd be up in fifteen minutes. Really, I'd wanted to put half an hour, but I didn't quite dare.

I made myself presentable, grabbed my messenger bag, and caught the lift up to his floor. When I tapped on the door, he called out cheerily "Uno momento," then appeared at the door, grinning widely as he realised it was me. "Come in, come in. Come and look at the view. You can see half of Mexico City from here." With his hand on the small of my back, he led me to the window and pulled back the curtain, showing me a dazzling view of the city. The city seemed to stretch on for miles; I had no idea it was so big, or so green.

"OK, that's pretty impressive," I conceded, digging in my bag for my phone, and snapping a few photos.

"Over there, I believe that is the grounds where we will be performing tomorrow. And in that direction, or so I am told..." I realised he was holding something behind his back, for when he produced it, it was a flyer in Spanish and English. "... is La Casa Azul. It's open this afternoon. If you would like to go, I can order a taxi?"

All my misgivings and resentments over Ralf's texts collapsed in a little pile of guilt over having doubted him. He was actually, in his weird, micromanaging sort of way, trying to be nice to me. "Are you coming with me?" I asked.

"Well." He smiled bashfully. "I'd like to, if you're not sick of your boss yet?" It was his first concession that I might have other plans and interests apart from him. I moved closer to him, and though I didn't dare risk a hug, I put my hand gently against his back and gave him a little squeeze.

The hotel called us a cab, which whisked us over in air conditioned comfort. Ralf stepped ahead of me at the desk, and insisted on paying for both of us. For all his haggling over business discounts and package deals, I never paid for anything, when I was with Ralf. Words echoed back to me, from Wolfgang: 'we never paid for a single meal with Ralf and Florian; I think they knew they paid us shit.' But I stuffed those feelings down as we stepped through into the cool, almost shocking azure space of the house.

We spent a beautiful and relaxing afternoon together. Ralf was mostly obsessed with the architecture; I lost myself in the art and the tiny historical details. Many of the objects on display had long texts in Spanish and short explanations in English, but together, between the pair of us we just had about enough Spanish to work things out. It always shocked me how much of Kahlo's radical politics was elided in American art histories of her work. But there it all was, Trotsky as a houseguest, the communist party, and so forth. Ralf was fascinated by this, as his interest in her art suddenly surged. We enjoyed a lively debate about the paintings, like a pair of students. He saw suffering; I saw strength and defiance. Then, we went and cooled off with a beverage in the shade of the courtyard. (He had coffee; I had iced tea.)

I couldn't get over the colour, the azure of the house was so rich, so blue, I kept trying to capture it on my phone. Ralf laughed and offered to take a picture of me in front of it, then I took one of him, which was unusual, for he hated having his photo taken, adjusting his hair and trying to disguise his double chin. A guide saw us snapping photos of each other, and offered to take one of us together, addressing us as señor and señora, to both of our amusement. At first, we posed stiffly, side by side, but the guide gestured for us to move closer together. We huddled closer, Ralf putting his arm, a little awkwardly, about my shoulder. It was the first, and perhaps only photo anyone deliberately took of the two of us together.

We went to the gift shop, and I bought a picture book, while Ralf bought some postcards, to send to his daughter, he said. She would like this kind of thing, as she was just at the age where she was first discovering Feminism. I laughed and said wasn't he afraid she would become a Marxist, or worse, a Trot? He smiled benignly, and said 'the Mama' would quickly put paid to that. That phrase irked me, though I couldn't tell why. I was used to the occasional reference to 'my wife' (never 'Jutta'; always 'my wife') in fact I occasionally found myself referring to her as 'your wife' myself, during those moments when I thought we might perhaps be getting a little too intimate. But when he called her 'the Mama', it was like an extra layer of depersonalisation. Maybe it was supposed to be an extra layer of intimacy instead: the mother of his child. But it never felt like that; it felt like the way my own Mum would snipe "who's 'she'; the cat's mother?" if we did not specify the object of our pronouns.

Eventually, the museum was closing, and anyway, we had to get back to the hotel for the crew dinner, so Ralf asked the guide to find us a taxi. I was a bit worried about the rusty old bangers lining up in the street outside, which didn't look as if they'd get us across the street, let alone across the town, but as soon as he said the name of our hotel the guide organised us a sleek, late model American car. Really, in my years away, I had forgotten what North America could be like, cosmopolitan wealth and abject poverty side by side, almost on the same block. There had been places just like this in New York City when I first moved there, though social cleansing was doing its best to tidy them away.

In the car, I fussed with my phone, but I couldn't get a signal. "Ach, I suppose it was only the Wifi I was able to receive in the hotel."

"You're not posting those photos to the internet, are you?" he asked, slightly alarmed.

"No, not pictures of us. I don't put anything personal on Twitter any more. But I wanted to post some of the Kahlo photos to Tumblr. And maybe the view from the hotel? If that's not too identifiable?" I suggested. I had disappeared almost so completely from Tumblr that really I just wanted to let my friends know I was OK, even if to boast of this lovely sub-tropical holiday.

"That should be fine." But then Ralf smirked. "I would hear of it immediately, if you posted anything too personal."

I stopped fiddling with the buttons of my phone, feeling a chill go down my neck that had nothing to do with the over-enthusiastic air conditioning. "Don't tell me Gudrun monitors social media for mentions of you... She can't. There's too much. And I told her I didn't have a Facebook."

It was Ralf's turn to squirm and look uncomfortable. "I... erm... well."

" _What_?" I demanded, and I must have looked pretty cross, because he confessed straightaway.

"My wife keeps a watch on your Tumblr and your Twitter feeds."

I felt suddenly unclean, like I was standing naked in front of the whole world. Well, not the whole world, but just the Hütter family. "And why on earth does she do a thing like that? I'm switching my account to private the moment we get back on Wifi."

"I shouldn't tell you this, but it won't do any good. She follows you, under an assumed name, of course."

"What?" I exploded. "How dare she? I'm not _her_ employee. Unless this was your idea, in which case, how dare you violate my privacy like this?"

Ralf refused to meet my eye, staring out the window, his jaw set. "I needed to know if I could trust you. In order to write the book, I have to tell you a great deal of sensitive and very private information. You would have noticed if @Kraftwerk suddenly started following you, so we made a false account, to follow you on Twitter and Tumblr, the day before I met you at K21. If you mentioned anything about the visit or the meeting, we would know that you were untrustworthy. But you were... how do they say in England. You were the soul of discretion."

I stared at him in horror. "That long?" I sputtered. "You've been monitoring for months, now? Haven't I proved that I'm trustworthy? I could have spilled a thousand secrets all over the internet if I was going to, but I haven't. What is this, the Kraftwerk Stasi?"

Wincing at the reference, Ralf tried to pacify me, laying his hand gently on my shoulder. "Please don't say such things. My wife was East German. These scars run very deep."

"This gives her the right to spy on me?" I was genuinely angry, shrugging his hand off me brusquely and trying to think back through anything and everything I'd posted anywhere over the past months.

"I have been trusting you with some of the most private facts of my life. It's hardly spying, to make sure you do not misuse them." Ralf sounded so defensive, I thought he must have felt quite guilty.

"You don't trust me, then?" I said, not even bothering to disguise the hurt in my voice.

Ralf sighed deeply. His hand crawled back towards me across the seat like a lonely spider, until his fingertips touched mine. "Actually, I do trust you. I have grown to trust you deeply."

"Tell your wife to stop spying on me, then."

"Katrin." The nickname sounded almost pleading as he took my hand. "Think about that. If I tell her to stop looking at your social media, in the middle of a tour, then she may stop trusting _me_."

It was as if the temperature dropped about ten degrees inside the cab, as I felt all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. And as the taxi pulled up outside our hotel, I suddenly started to feel really, really weird. For a slightly too-long moment, Ralf held onto my hand and looked at me carefully, before he finally dropped it to reach into his jacket for his wallet, to pay the driver. Up until that moment, I had never seen anything underhanded about the way he behaved towards me. He was annoying, bossy, presumptuous and slightly controlling, yes. But I had believed him when he said that he had no romantic impulses towards me.

I noticed, as we walked into the hotel, that he put his hand gently on the small of my back. I had just thought he was being old-fashioned and gentlemanly with these gestures. There couldn't possibly be anything else to them. Could there?

He turned towards me as we entered the lift, though he waited for the door to close, so that we were alone again, before he spoke. "I need to go to my room to attend to some things. I expect you need to do the same? So I will see you at dinner."

"Yes, of course," I said, suddenly stuttering over my words. He didn't want the touring party to see us entering the dinner together. Was there something to that? Of course there wasn't. It was the social media business, that had unnerved me, and now I was feeling paranoid about everything.

I got off at my floor, and made my way to my room, to find Müller sprawled out across her bed, trying to catch a nap. But even though I tried to go about my business quietly, she still woke and stared at me sleepily.

>>Where have you been?>>

>>I went to an art gallery<< I explained, deciding to leave our boss out of it. 

>>Sounds boring. What'd you do that for?<<

>>Well, I had the afternoon off, so I thought I might as well see some local colour. Culture, you know.<<

>>Huh<< snorted Müller, indicating her lack of interest. >>Only local colour I'm interested in, is scouting out where the local gay clubs are. Don't suppose you checked out that, on your little cultural crawl?<<

>>Sorry<< I laughed, then looked at her. >>Are you going to bring girls back to the hotel, then? Are we going to have to work out some code, like a bra over the door handle or something?<<

Müller shook with laughter. >>If you were really bisexual, you'd offer to join in.<< she teased.

>>Who says I'm not going to pull some groupies of my own?<< I teased right back.

>>Like Hütter is going to allow you the time to.<< Müller obviously meant it as a joke. I could clearly tell, she was only saying it to rib me. But I felt my face flushing, and turned away. But she misunderstood the source of my flustered response. >>Are you really gonna be funny about it, if I get some action? God, straight girls are so weird...<<

>>Look, it doesn't matter. Do whatever you enjoy. I'm not out to spoil your fun. I'll put in earplugs or something so you don't keep me up.<< Not wanting to get any deeper into the subject, I turned and walked into the bathroom, locking the door behind me and sitting down on the toilet to try to work out what to do about my social media. Pulling out my phone, I flicked through my accounts, trying to work out which of my followers might be Jutta in masquerade. But the problem was, so many people had followed me after the TBCBYL blog, many of them either German or just with Kraftwerk-related names, that I just couldn't tell. It would be impossible to block them all. >>So I guess I'm stuck with you, Jutta<< I said quietly to my Twitter followers.

But then I opened up the text messages, and found myself typing "I guess I'm just not going to use social media again until this book is finished."

A reply came back only 30 seconds later. Ralf was either already online, or very quick to respond. "I don't want you to feel like that. Please feel free to express yourself online. I know it is important to you."

"Well, not if I can't talk about the biggest thing in my life right now."

There was about a two-minute pause before the next message. "Am I really the biggest thing in your life?"

I almost laughed aloud. "Well the *book* is, you ninny."

There was no reply for some time. I did not think it was out of order to think that he might be experiencing some embarrassment. But finally, a text came back. "I had to look up what a 'ninny' was. That wasn't a very nice thing you called me."

"Well, you were acting like a ninny."

"I am also your boss. Show some respect, please."

"What about feelings. Should I show those, too? ;)" I added a little winking face to show I was joking, tossing back a reference to his lyrics.

The next reply was really quite some time coming back. "Do you have feelings I should be aware of?"

How annoying. That wasn't how the lyric went, but never mind. I was giggling as I typed out the chorus, the punchline to the joke. "I don't want to be... YOUR TEXT OBJECT." There was no reply for some time, so I quickly added. "I was making a joke? About the song lyrics? You know, like we used to do in email, before we met up?"

The next reply was very sheepish. "I think perhaps you might be correct in your assertion. I am a bit of a ninny."

Ralf was oddly reserved towards me at dinner. I had thought that I would sit next to him, but he moved off to the other side of the table, almost as if he were avoiding me, but no, he just wanted to discuss details of the stage set-up with Günter. Well, never mind. I sat between Müller and Rudi, and got into a funny discussion about Mexican food with Rudi and Fritz, trying to work out the difference between the various degrees of salsas and hot sauces in our broken Spanish. Aside from Ralf's aloofness, there was a nice, convivial atmosphere at supper. Although I did not normally get much of a chance to talk with the others when we were at Klingklang, on tour we all seemed to pull together very quickly. Overnight, I had become one of the gang. Maybe it felt a bit like a working holiday together at that point, but it turned out that was an excellent way to build camaraderie with my colleagues. Everyone was excited, and in a good mood, in anticipation of the tour.

But I soon became aware that every time I glanced across to the other side of the large, round table, it seemed like Ralf was gazing at me with a distinctly odd expression. The first time, he wouldn't meet my gaze, and looked away quickly, turning back to Günter to hash through something else. The second time, I glanced over and saw him staring at me again, with a slightly curious expression that looked as if he wanted to ask something of me. So I caught his eye, raised my eyebrows and just smiled. He looked suddenly slightly embarrassed, and immediately swung his gaze down, as if he had been caught doing something shameful. 

Soon afterwards, Fritz started to demonstrate a very amusing incident at a meal that they had eaten on their first South American tour nearly ten years previously, as Rudi had dared him to eat a spicy Mexican pickle of unknown provenance. My attention was caught up in laughing at him for the next ten minutes or so, as the pair of them recounted and debated the story. Fritz was actually hilarious, I realised. He and Henning, who was sitting on his other side, had a very amusing double act, where Henning played the straight man to Fritz's escalating absurdity, and Rudi, Müller and I were all soon in stitches. I had no idea how anyone could ever think of this band as humourless; they had their own set of in-jokes and their own particular form of absurd and slightly dry wit that kept me laughing for hours. But when I glanced back across the table after about twenty minutes, I could see that Ralf had stopped talking to Günter, and was just sitting, calmly observing me with a slightly curious look on his face.

After dinner, the crew started to discuss going to a nearby bar to watch a football match, but I was suffering badly from jet lag and wanted to rest. Ralf produced the corporate credit card, and paid for the meal as the others shuffled off in search of a taxi, but he hung back as the party cleared out. I wasn't sure if I should confront him, or just go quietly to my room, but I didn't like this strange feeling hanging between us. I hung back, out of the way, as he bid goodnight to Günter and Gudrun, then slipped over to his side, once we found ourselves alone.

"Are you angry at me?" I asked cautiously.

"No, no, nothing like that," he insisted, and for a moment, I thought he was going to pretend that nothing had been odd at dinner, but then he kind of shrugged, and looked at me a little helplessly.

"OK..." I conceded, worrying that he seemed out of sorts. "Then what is it? Nervous about the gig tomorrow, then?"

"No, not at all," he insisted, then relented. "Well maybe a little. Yes. You have seen through me; I have nerves. At my age, you'd think I would have outgrown nerves, but the truth is, there are some feelings one never outgrows. You understand?"

"Yes," I said, and squeezed his arm to try to reassure him. "I understand completely."

He smiled and leaned in towards me, his body language relaxing slightly. "You always understand. It is very reassuring, how much you understand me. I do feel it is a very nice thing, to be understood. So rare."

I felt my face flushing, as I recognised this was intended as a compliment, though it was an odd compliment. "Ralf, it is my job to understand you. I am your biographer."

He turned and looked at me, gave me a long, hard searching look, though his face slowly softened into a smile. "I think there a little more to it than that?" And just as swiftly he seemed to change the conversation, before I could even answer the first question. "Are you not going drinking with the rest of the crew? It is a Saturday night, after all."

I shook my head. "Not tonight. I fancy something a bit quieter. You?"

"Well. I would rather like a nightcap, but I don't want to go to a loud, crazy bar either. Would you keep a foolish old man company for an after-dinner coffee? I have heard that this hotel has a balcony at the back, overlooking the swimming pool. Shall we go out there and see if we can find a quieter drink?"

"I don't want anything else to drink, but I'll certainly stay and occupy the other side of the table, so no one else bothers you, while you have your coffee," I agreed.

He smiled and nodded. "Like I said, you understand me. But it will be a decaf tonight. I have too much of the nerves."

Although I wanted to ask him if we were over that weirdness at dinner, I found myself quickly distracted. "Don't you have an early start tomorrow? Are you having meetings with journalists and radio people and so forth tomorrow?"

Threading his arm through mine, he escorted me out to the veranda. As we were shown to a table and seated, he dug in his back pocket and produced a printed itinerary. "Yes, I have a few meetings tomorrow. A brief brunch with the head of our South American record company. Some of the details of that might be interesting to you. Oh, and I will be interviewed by the largest Spanish-language music publication in South America." He flicked a grin as he looked up at me. "You could see how the professionals do it. Would you like to come?"

I thought to myself that a record company meeting would be incredibly boring, and the quip about the professional music journalist was definitely a provocation, but still, I could see that he wanted my company, so I agreed. "Alright, if it's allowed."

"The nice thing about being the artist is that everything is allowed."

I ended up ordering a pina colada sorbet while Ralf nursed his decaf. That, of course, was subject to Hütter "tax" and once Ralf ascertained that he liked it, he ordered his own. I was still a little bit disconcerted by his odd behaviour over dinner, so I found myself trying a little harder to be charming, trying to tempt him into conversation by offering him little leading questions about subjects I knew he enjoyed.

But abruptly, as I was trying to wend him with words, he looked across the table with that same curious, searching look he had had at dinner. "Katrin," he said softly. "I feel like you are interviewing me again. I am tired of talking about myself. Why do you never tell me anything about yourself?"

I looked at him blankly. "It's not my job to tell you about myself."

Ralf smiled slyly. "Again with your 'job'. We are not at work now."

"You are always at work. The 168 hour work week, remember?" I teased.

"Indulge me. Tell me something about you. Let me understand you."

"Like what?" I shrugged, feeling very put on the spot.

Ralf looked faintly flummoxed by my throwing back the question. It seemed odd to me that someone who had been on the receiving end of so many interviews could not come up with a question of his own. But he started to look about wildly, until his eyes fastened on the swimming pool, lit a deep turquoise blue, twenty feet below us. "What is your favourite colour."

If I hadn't been so perplexed by the entire turn the conversation had taken, I might have burst out laughing, but instead, I supplied, "Deep blue."

"No wonder you liked La Casa Azul, then."

I smiled. "Well, that was a very pretty colour, but it's not _the_ perfect blue. My actual favourite blue is a deep, cobalt blue. So deep it's almost violet, like a stained glass blue. When I first moved to New York City, I went to Conran, which is a very expensive, very chic design shop, and I bought a single glass, that exact precise cobalt blue colour. It was the most beautiful colour I'd ever seen."

Ralf smiled as he sipped his coffee, and I noticed that his eyes, when dilated all the way, in the soft, dark, Mexican night, were almost that colour. "Yes, I think I know exactly the colour you mean."

"What about you, what's your favourite colour?"

"That's easy. It's black."

"Not communist red?" I teased.

He shook his head. "Black. But not a hard, dark, shiny black. I like a matte black, maybe even a little faded black. Like a very dark charcoal grey. The colour of your favourite comfortable cotton shirt, after it's been through the laundry about a hundred times. I love that colour. I find it very soothing."

"A warm black or a cold blue-grey black?"

"Hmmm. The colour of used coffee grinds. That black."

"Warm black, then. That's funny. I would have thought you were more of a cold kind of person."

A vaguely miffed expression. "Even now you know me, you think this?"

I didn't think I would ever truly know Ralf, but I didn't tell him that. "No, I meant in colour, not in personality." Then I swiftly changed the subject. "What's your favourite sound? A natural sound, not a musical or a synthesised sound."

"Ah!" At this, he perked up a little. "The hiss of escaping stream."

"Like an espresso maker," I laughed.

"Yes, but... more than that. Like an old-fashioned steam train. Like hydraulic breaks. You know, we spent a long time designing the sound of a hiss for Radioactivity. We wanted it to sound like the hiss of an old-fashioned radio, but also like... like.. what is the English word? Cooling fluid? You know the towers of a power station, the way they give off these vast plumes of steam? I suppose it's terrible pollution, but I always thought it was very beautiful."

I chuckled, resting my chin on my hand as I gazed across the table at him. "I wish I had my notebook. That's going in the book."

"Stop interviewing me!" he admonished playfully. "I thought we were just playing a game. What is _your_ favourite sound?"

"My favourite sound..." I glanced wistfully off towards the swimming pool. "Waves breaking on a pebble beach. But they have to be just the right size pebbles, about medium size and very round. So that you get that wonderful _crunch_ , as the wave breaks, and then that wonderful chatter... clitter-clatter, froth... almost a laughing sound as the water retreats." I did an attempt at an imitation of it, and Ralf smiled.

"Isn't it funny that both of our favourite sounds are water," he observed, then seemed momentarily lost in a memory. "I don't suppose you are a water sign, are you?" he asked with a slightly coy grin.

"No, I'm a fire sign like you."

"Maybe that's it. We both wish for water, to put us out, damp us down a little." But then he tilted his head. "It's nonsense, of course, but..." I nodded my head in agreement. "What sign are you?"

I almost laughed aloud. It had been so long since anyone asked. "Aries," I supplied.

"Ah! Flori is an Aries. He always said that was why we got along so well together. Aries and Leo make good partnerships."

"My best friend is a Leo," I conceded. I wanted to ask his wife's sign, but I didn't dare. I wanted to be selfish, and not bring her up at all, not even remind myself of her, just enjoy this strange, new, inquisitive Ralf.

But the waiter came and cleared away our empty ice cream dishes, and I could see him hovering as Ralf finished his coffee. Already, we were going to have to order something else, or be given the bill. But I was dropping from jet lag, even though it was still early, and desperate to go to bed, so I made the universal gesture for settling up.

Ralf picked up the cheque, but for once, he didn't put it on his credit card, or even his room's bill. He dug in his pocket and produced cash. "We should go to bed," he said sleepily.

For just a moment, I wanted to toss back a flippant response, to raise an eyebrow and make a flirtatious comment twisting his suggestion as a proposition, but I stopped myself just in time. Still, some spark of amusement must have shown on my face, because his eyebrows shot up for a moment, but then his smile matched my own. For only a few seconds, our eyes locked and our smirks aligned, almost as if he had realised his own double entendre, and was thinking the same thought. But the moment passed, our eye contact broke, and the joke went unmade.

We fell silent as we walked to the lift, but it was a warm, sleepy silence. I glanced at the clock, but it was still early, just past eight. "I want to go to sleep now, but I suppose I'll be up at the crack of dawn, if I do."

"Well," replied Ralf. "I will probably wake about 6, local time. If you're bored, and you would like to come to my suite for breakfast, please send me a text saying when you will come up."

"Will do," I said, then as the doors opened to my floor, I turned to him. "Guten Acht." I could see him chuckling to himself as the door closed behind me.


	19. Corona Capital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrin gets a backstage-eye view of Kraftwerk's festival appearance. However, things don't go entirely to plan.

I fell asleep almost as soon as I reached my hotel bed, and barely even turned my head as Müller clattered in drunk about an hour later. Fortunately she was alone, though she had clearly had a lot to drink. I left her sleeping it off as I showered, dressed, and mucked about on the internet until it was 6 am. Then I texted Ralf to see if he was awake, but he told me to just come straight up.

We ate a rather sumptuous breakfast as he went through the day's plans. I took his iPad, and actually entered his day's schedule into its diary, then synchronised it to my phone, prompting reminders to come up. If he was going to treat me as his personal assistant, I might as well make myself useful and keep his appointments from running overtime. He, I think, was really rather tickled by the whole idea, though I worried about stepping on Gudrun's toes.

On the contrary, Gudrun seemed quite happy to shift the responsibility of looking after Ralf onto me, as Günter had been called off to the festival site to deal with some discrepancy in the stage requirements, and she was left to round up the rest of the crew to get them to the festival site early enough for a linecheck. She left me her mobile number, and a careful deadline of the absolute last minute we had to leave the hotel to get to the festival site, then left us to it. The responsibility felt a little overwhelming.

But Ralf and I made a good team. He seemed to actually appreciate my hyper-awareness of time and punctuality, teasing me that I must have some German blood in me somewhere. I think, really, it took the stress of worrying about time off him, allowing him to relax more in his interviews and other business conversations, safe in the knowledge that I would intercept before any meetings overran. I had no idea that I could be quite so organised, and surprised even myself with my efficiency.

Catching a taxi outside the hotel, I delivered Ralf to the festival site an hour ahead of schedule. We checked in at the security office, where we were given the appropriate passes and a map to the backstage area, showing where Kraftwerk's hospitality area was. I took command of the map, as the backstage area was easily the size of a large village, and negotiated him through narrow, canvas-wrapped passages until we reached our own compound. This was a small fenced-off picnic area with no less than three cabins - one for Ralf, one for the rest of the band, and one for the crew - a sure sign of their standing within the festival pecking order. There was drink laid on, but no-one in the band seemed much interested in it, and the crew abstained until after the gig. Shortly, catering arrived, and brought food, then set up a coffee-maker in the large crew cabin. That proved a great deal more popular than the alcohol, as we had to refill it twice.

If Ralf was still nervous, he didn't show it, sitting placidly at one of the tables and listening amiably to the conversation around him. I asked if they needed to draw up a set-list, but Henning laughed. That had already been taken care of, and programmed into the computer workstations. Everything was timed down to the millisecond, allowing for swift change-overs between songs.

When he finished his coffee, Ralf stretched lazily. He said he was going to lie down for a short nap in his cabin, then change into his stage clothes, so I left him to it. It was getting later, the sun sinking in the sky, and we could hear the noise of the crowd growing, and the glow from the main stage slowly lighting up the environs. If I'd been hoping to catch any of the other bands at the event, I'd have been disappointed. The two main stages were at either end of the backstage village with their amplification systems pointing outward, rendering the sound a weird, thumping mishmash of different artists.

The crew were getting ready, as they had to start changing over the gear as soon as the previous band left the stage. Müller asked if I wanted to tag along for the experience, but I said I'd wait for Ralf. Günter announced it was time, and they all left, in a huge, black-clad flock, and our little compound suddenly felt rather empty and oddly quiet.

Time ticked on, as I could feel my own nerves rising, even if Ralf didn't appear bothered. Falk, Fritz and Henning changed into their stage clothes, then gathered in front of their trailer. The three of them were very slim, and in their technological suits, with their closely cropped or shaved heads, they looked a little like spacemen. Even their attitudes changed when they put on those suits, the easy joking and laughter giving way to that very solemn, very formal carriage so typical of Kraftwerk onstage.

Finally, Ralf emerged, resplendent in his snug cycling suit. He looked smaller than I was expecting, and I realised that he had taken almost exclusively to wearing shoes with a slight heel when he was around me. The tight lycra of his costume invited the gaze, and though I tried very hard not to look, it was impossible not to. His legs were very slim, with powerful thighs, and that slightly rounded bum. Although he stood uncharacteristically erect when he saw me looking, his paunch was unmistakable, his upper arms slightly flabby in a way his button-down shirts usually forgave. The outfit was very sleek, very streamlined, everything tucked away very firm and taut, but I could not help but wonder, what on earth would happen if one of them got an erection onstage. It had to happen after all; playing dance music was a sexy thing to be doing. Or maybe they had been doing it for so long, it had lost all frisson. The idea tugged at me, would not let my mind rest, as I tried desperately not to look in that direction.

It was getting late. The scheduled time for the band to leave for the main stage came and went, but there was no sign of the guide who was meant to escort us from our compound. This was most un-German, and Fritz and Henning exchanged nervous glances, wondering aloud if we should try to make our own way towards the stage. Minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Even Ralf was starting to show signs of looking a little anxious. But abruptly, a festival official appeared just at the door to our compound, and said it was time for Kraftwerk to make their way to the main stage.

"You come with me," directed Ralf, as if there had been any doubt, but I fell into line. Since the delay, there was a definite edgy mood of tension coming off him. The festival official guided us out of our compound with a flashlight, and Gudrun brought up the rear. There was a large golf cart waiting for us on the grass, so we all climbed onboard, but we were quite close to the stage already. The busy foot traffic of stage hands and roadies scurried out of the way as we rolled through, making us feel a little like royalty. We reached the stage and climbed up the make-shift stairs at the side, to the main level of scaffolding. Backstage was a mess of piles of equipment and cables everywhere, but as we came around to the front, I could see that the front of the stage had been completely cleared except for the four podiums and a projection screen behind them, currently showing the pixelated Kraftwerk avatars against a bright red background. Kraftwerk did not share their stage with anyone else's drum riser.

As they stood in a little knot, just out of view, waiting for the final signal, I stepped forward slightly and peered through the proscenium arch. Christ, that was a lot of people. Wave upon wave of faces stretched out of sight until they stopped even looking like faces, and just looked like a field of some exotic flowers. I looked about for the main soundboard, then realised that it was off, half a kilometre away, in a sort of tower halfway up the field. Onstage, Müller and Rudi were wrestling with the last of the cables, snapping everything into place, until they turned to face the crowd. They flickered their flashlights at the tower to catch Stef's attention at the desk, then gave him the thumbs up and darted back across the stage with their flashlights lowered again.

Robbo, meanwhile, had come up to the band, and handed around two small black cases. One contained three sets of in-ear monitors, which Fritz, Henning and Falk distributed among themselves, checking each other carefully. while the other contained Ralf's special headset. Ralf extracted it deftly from its foam shell, hooked the microphone carefully over his ear and tucked the cable down the back of his shirt, turning around to attach a small metal receiver to the waistband of his leggings.

>>Katrin, would you help me?<< he asked, a little too solicitously, as he gestured towards the wire, which seemed to have got stuck halfway down his back. >>Normally, I do the wire at soundcheck, and put the suit on over it, but tonight, since we have had no soundcheck...<< Again he gestured helplessly towards his rear.

I stepped towards him, and gingerly pulled out the hem of the shirt, trying very hard not to actually touch the inviting rounded lobes of his arse. But luckily, as I was wondering if I would actually have to start digging about in his shirt for the wire, a small jack dropped out, hanging at the end of its cable. Gently seizing it, I inserted it carefully into the obvious hole in the box attached to his waistband and heard a satisfying pop as the circuit came alive. >>Is that right?<<

"Ja, viele danke." Ralf smiled his thanks and nodded, adjusting his shirt where I had disturbed it, pulling it back down over his bum. I started to blush a little, but already someone else was already demanding his attention in the busy backstage area. Though his attention was distracted, his hand continued to hover around the small of his back, where I had touched him.

>>Ralf! Ralf, can we get a vocal line-check?<< called Robbo, from the small mixing desk in the wings, where he would manage the stage sound and the special mixes in the headsets. Piled all around the desk were racks of equipment, the new amplifiers from Stuttgart arranged almost haphazardly about the compact computer workstation that rendered the 3D graphics in real-time.

Ralf removed his hand from his shirt, and cupped it around the microphone, speaking in his strident stage-voice, "Eins, zwei - eins, zwei, drei..."

>>Thanks, that's good<< called back Robbo, giving him the thumbs up. >>Everything is in place now. Countdown to stage time...<<

Günter cupped his hand to his ear to mutter something into his own ear-mouth-piece, then nodded.  >>Stef says the sound-tower is ready. Count-down to begin on the minute<< he said, going to his place by the onstage soundboard, as the minimal stage lights went completely dark.

Ralf, his muscles as tightly coiled as a spring, looked at his watch, waited as the second hand swept round the dial, then nodded sharply, catching Robbo's eye. Robbo switched something on the control desk, and a computerised voice boomed out across the field. "Meine Damen und Herrn, Heute Abend, aus Deutschland... die Mensch-Maschine... Kraftwerk..."

A smattering of applause, as people started to shout, but the stage remained dark. About a breath later, as the tension built, the vocoder again echoed out into the night, counting to eight in German. More people started to whistle and clap, but then Rudi punched something on his computer, and the podiums flashed to life with an eerie green glow as the pounding, almost brutal drumbeat of Numbers started up. A wave of excitement went up from the audience, as they realised the show was starting.

Ralf gave one last look about, his eyebrows raised, but he already had the attention of everyone in the backstage area. Then he nodded again, and walked forward, leading his bandmates behind him like a gaggle of ducklings. As they appeared, the roar off the crowd took even me by surprise. Deafening wasn't the right word. It was like a physical sensation, buffeting the stage like the headwinds of turbulence had buffeted our little aeroplane.

The band didn't even look at each other. All of the podiums and the cocoon of computers were wired together, so that the four of them leaned forward, and abruptly the sound changed, the fluttering synth line appearing, and more streams of numbers, in Spanish, English and German, joined the music.

Something was not right, though. Rudi kept punching buttons on the lighting board and waving frantically, trying to capture Falk's attention, but it took me a moment to work out what was wrong. The projection screen behind them was completely dark. The podiums were glowing, and the spotlights had come on, but the screen itself, normally filled with fanciful projections of streaming neon numbers during the rehearsals, remained reproachfully blank. Rudi and Robbo conferred, checked various cables, flicked switches and pounded the various keys of the computer that was supposed to be generating the graphics, but even I could see that the screen had frozen, and the rendering program would not boot up. Finally, Rudi let out a stream of rude words in German, English and possibly Bengali, then took the unprecedented step of slamming control-alt-delete until the entire graphics system rebooted. The podiums and spotlights went dead, and Falk stared in alarm at his workstation, but the rest of the band took it in their stride, continuing the music at least, despite the darkness.

As the music changed, and the first opening chords of Computer World boomed out, Rudi made a dash for it, launching himself out onto the stage and running up to Falk. The pair of them exchanged words for a few moments, then Rudi started to dig around in the cable connections at the front of Falk's podium. I held my breath as Ralf started to sing the opening bars of the song, praying that the technical problems would sort themselves out, and that the show wouldn't be ruined.

By the end of the song, Falk had had enough. He kept trying to attract Fritz's attention, then finally gestured to the others to say that he was going backstage to try to figure out what was going on. A moment later, he came dashing over to confer with Rudi and Günter about what on earth was going on. The lighting system was now rebooting. The stage went completely dark, and I seemed to lose track of time, as every second they didn't play dragged on interminably. All I could see was the faint glow of their cycling suits, while all I could hear was the crowd chanting "Kraftwerk, Kraftwerk" in unison, as if not understanding why the music had stopped. 

Ralf tried to make a joke of it, quipping into his microphone about rebooting the robots, but I could tell that it was tense. Falk went back to his workstation to fuss with it, conferring hurriedly with Henning, while Fritz appeared backstage in his place, as Rudi, Robbo and Müller all scrabbled around desperately with the cabling. Ralf started another song - It's More Fun To Compute - as the techs performed emergency repairs on the graphics computer, swearing very hard about how little fun it was to compute at that moment.

From my limited technical German, I gathered that they had located the cause of the problem. Unshielded cables from a step-up transformer which was needed to adapt Mexican current to the huge amount of power required by the Stuttgart amplifiers had generated a wave of electrical interference that had crashed the delicate graphics computer's hard drive. The cables had been moved and the amplifiers isolated, but Rudi was still trying to restart the graphics computer, as the bloody thing had come on in Safe Mode and although its operating system appeared undamaged, the thing was impatiently bleating for attention.

The problems seemed to go on forever, seconds became minutes, and the minutes seemed stretched to an eternity by the glitch as the team raced against the clock, but Ralf stuck determinedly by his console, continuing to play professionally as chaos rolled around him.

"OK! The computers need to warm up," he  announced in his very calm, very steady voice, and finally, _finally_ , the graphics system rebooted properly. Rudi let out a small whoop and started up the rendering program, the projection program, and the remote link to Falk's iPad, the various components that connected it to the rest of the musical system coming back online and falling into synch. Fritz breathed a huge sigh of relief, and made a beeline for his podium, while Henning and Falk abandoned their huddle around Falk's workstation, and got back to work. The show must go on. 

By the start of Home Computer, the 3D projections were back online, and the whole performance fell back into place. An official from the festival came over to chat with Günter - I caught only fragments of the conversation, but Günter was clearly anxious to know if they would have to cut the set short. But the official seemed nonchalant. He knew Kraftwerk were the main draw; so long as the equipment problems were sorted, he would let the set overrun to make up the time. Günter smiled and nodded, and as The Robots went off without a hitch, the crew, too, seemed to visibly relax.

I tried to relax, but it was strange, watching from the side of the stage. The music was quite low, almost muted where I was standing, and there was a huge, weird echoey delay. So there was a reason that all four of them had in-ear monitors; to combat against the blow-back from the enormous speakers facing out into the crowd, which boomed back their precise beats with a split-second delay. Now that the crisis was over, I moved closer to Günter and the onstage soundboard to try to get better sound, but from that angle, I could not see anything except the edge of Falk's terminal. Now everything was working again, I could watch him as he selected what looked like animated GIFs, and flicked them about his own workstation. With the technical problems behind them, the band were working with the same dedicated focus as when they were in the rehearsal hall at Klingklang.

Müller gestured towards me from the wings, where she was having a sneaky vape. >>Come over here. The sound is better. Just stay out of the line of sight.<<

I went over to stand by her, our backs against a speaker stack, and realised that from that position, we weren't so much listening to the music, as _feeling_ it. The bass was phenomenal, just wobbling up inside all my bones,  We didn't talk, and I knew better than to try to reassure her about the crisis the crew had just ridden out. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the music.

I knew that really, I was there as a writer, not so much to cover the show, as to document Ralf and his place in the band. But when the performance really got going, I found myself utterly captivated. My music writer head simply shut down, crawled off somewhere and refused to function on any logical level, as I found myself utterly swept up in being a _fan_.

I knew intimately, how the songs went. Having watched many of the rehearsals at Klingklang, I even knew how the set went, the order of songs, the animations and films that they had planned for each. And yet seeing it unfold in front of me, like a fantastical spectacle - the night, the open air, the hundred thousand fans moving in unison - charged the entire event with some kind of electrical energy. There was a magic that happened when they got in front of an audience. Those four men, who I was starting to come to know quite well as individuals offstage, took on something epic when they put on those suits and climbed to that stage, transformed to cogs in a superhuman machinery that whirred and hummed and throbbed to life.

Forgetting Müller, forgetting everyone around me, I leaned back against the speaker stack and let the music take me. I knew it was a trick; I had seen those podiums taken to pieces in front of me, keyboards and circuitry and software. Fallible human machines that sometimes failed quite spectacularly. And the music, that was so familiar to me that I could hear it even in my sleep, it quivered and danced and pulsed with energy, pulling me on a new trip down a familiar road.

It was a short set, by their standards; a festival set, just the hits, really. But it was very efficient. There was no banter aside from Ralf's few quips about the rebooting robots, no between-song faff, and every solo was timed down to the millisecond, to squeeze in the maximum amount of music, without a moment of wasted space.

Their set finished at about twenty minutes behind schedule, though they even had a choreographed ritual for finishing in a way that seemed improvised and spontaneous. They trooped offstage in reverse order, each of them doing a short solo for Musique Non-Stop (well, Ralf doing a slightly longer solo) before taking a bow and exiting back the way they came. Ralf finished his solo, then exaggeratedly checked his watch, feigned surprise at the time, and pretended he needed to sleep, before coming out for his own bow. It was funny the first time I saw it, but over the next few performances, it became just a tick, another part of the show, as choreographed as Falk's visual sequences.

The crew went back to work, dismantling the stage as efficiently as they had set it up, as the band gathered by Gudrun for their short ride back to the compound. It wasn't quite the wave of adrenaline that I had seen rock bands participate in, on coming offstage, but everyone, the younger members of the gang especially, seemed very chipper and in good spirits. For Ralf was grinning jovially, looking very satisfied with himself, the slightly edgy mood of the technical problems completely dispelled.

I didn't get the chance to talk to him, since as soon as the group had assembled, we were greeted by our official again, and escorted off the stage. But I patted him gently on the back and smiled, which I did not realise was a bit of a liberty until I saw he and the other band members exchanging only hearty handshakes.

Back at the compound, now people started to relax, and dig into the refreshments. Gudrun was describing the options for an aftershow, or a disco, which seemed to be a long-standing tradition with Ralf. After the show, he liked to blow off steam by going for a little dance. And after the technical problem-ridden show it seemed he had more steam than usual.

But he tugged my arm towards his trailer. "Come and tell me what you thought."

"Do you want a coffee?" I offered, unsure if I wanted to be in his trailer as he was changing.

"I do not really need one. I am still rather high from the performance." I could see this from the way his face was glowing, flushed slightly red. "Sit, sit." He gestured towards a chair. "There is wine, I think, in the cooler if you want it. But please pour me some sparkling water." I busied myself with the contents of the fridge, but he walked over to me, turning around and pointing to his arse. For a horrible moment, I felt my stomach doing flip-flops, but then I realised he meant the small square box still attached to his belt. "Would you mind unplugging me?"

I gulped nervously, then again, gingerly raised his shirt to unplug the box. I needn't have worried; there was nothing to be seen but a great expanse of black Lycra, but still, it felt far too intimate a scenario. For an awful moment, I panicked, not wanting to be trapped in this cabin, staring at him as he disrobed, but fortunately, he retreated to a large, black flight case of the sort used to transport stage costumes, and stepped behind its open door in order to strip his cycling suit off.

Who on earth took care of these little intimate details, when I was not on tour, I wondered. Thinking back to that busy rush to get onstage, I had a mental flash of the other three lads, all identical in their outfits and shorn heads, turning around to check each others' connections as I'd fiddled with Ralf's cable. There was something ever so slightly homoerotic about that backstage scene, something distinctly kinky about the skintight black suits, and I found my brain back on the same topic, wondering if they sweated onstage, wondering if they became uncomfortable, or... "Does that need to be washed?" I blurted out, breaking the almost unbearable silence to stop my brain galloping off down inappropriate trains of thought.

"No, no, it cannot be washed, on account of the lighting strips. But there is cleaning fluid, for if it becomes soiled," Ralf chirped, as if this were a perfectly natural situation. When he stepped out from behind the case, he was wearing a pair of black trousers and an undershirt, though he had the Lycra suit on a hanger.

"Doesn't it start to smell, after a while?' I teased.

"Oh no." He chuckled at the idea. "We do not perspire onstage. And even if we did... it is cycling fabric. It wicks." He held out the material for me to touch. It was still slightly warm from his body, but the fabric was porous, and quite dry. Hanging there like that, it looked almost like a chrysalis, a sloughed-off skin, still holding the shape of Ralf's slightly convex body.

"It's funny how it holds your shape. It's like your double, your doppelganger," I blurted out stupidly, then wondered if I was being rude. After all, here I was obsessing over the clothes, when I hadn't even mentioned the performance or those awful glitches with the projections.

But Ralf laughed a little as he held it up, so that the trousers moved slightly in the breeze. "I suppose in a way it is." He checked over the suit, then hung it back up. "We are going to go dancing, in just a moment. A performance always leaves me in the mood for a little dance. Would you like to come, or would you rather go back to the hotel to rest?"

"I'll come dancing," I nodded, then spied my chance to deliver the required appraisal of the performance. "I'm not surprised you want to dance, then. Once it got going, it was a very good show. I could feel the energy. It's amazing how _alive_ the performance becomes, in front of an audience."

Ralf waved away the compliment, as if slightly embarrassed by it. "Ach, but the technical problems..." 

"Yes, but you overcame them. The team pulled together really quickly - I'm impressed by how competent everyone was under pressure - and you all stayed so professional. You especially. I would have been panicking up there, but you were as cool as a cucumber. And I think your calm reassured the audience. It was a very, very polished, professional performance, despite the problems with the visuals. You handled yourselves extraordinarily well."

Ralf actually beamed. "Well," he said, looking quite pleased with himself. I could see from the tight-lipped smile on his face that it had been the right thing to say. He liked the idea of himself as a beacon of calm, competent grace, surrounded by chaos. "Do you really think so? Other than that, it was OK?"

"Once you got going, the gig was fantastic. The sound quality was extraordinary," I added, trying to recover my music journalist head. "I mean, obviously it sounded great, back at Klingklang. But it was perfect, even at festival volume."

Ralf actually grinned, showing all of his teeth. He didn't really like talking about himself, but when he talked about his toys, he came alive. "Yes, those are the new amplifiers that we ordered from Stuttgart. Robbo in particular knows a great deal about amplification. It's rare that we get the chance to test them at their full capacity, at the indoor gigs, because the team are so careful to damp down the spaces, but at festivals, I think both Robbo and Stef have a lot of fun seeing how far they can push the equipment." It was quite sweet, the obvious pride he took in his team, and quite different from what I had expected, due to his megalomaniac reputation.

"Well, I'll be sure to compliment them when I see them again. And Rudi in particular. He really saved the day with his quick thinking, when the visuals crashed. And you, of course.. by continuing to play the songs, perfectly, even without the accompaniment."

Ralf nodded greedily as he sat down to take off his shoes. It was quite funny, actually. It wasn't as if Ralf's modesty was false. He genuinely was slightly embarrassed and flustered when people complimented him. But the embarrassment was at his own _pleasure_ in how much he liked being complimented. He didn't dislike being approved of, if people told him that he was clever, and that he was talented; he was just slightly ashamed to be caught enjoying being approved of so much. So I offered him little tit-bits to make him puff up as proud as a pigeon. I knew what he liked people to say, so I praised the warmth of the performance, the fluidity of his extemporisations. I knew he especially liked when people noticed his little improvisations, to prove how live the show was.

After stowing the slipper-like stage shoes back into the box, Ralf sat down to pull on his Chelsea Boots, and sipped at his Pellegrino. "So. Enough swelling for my head. Now let us go dancing. Bring the bottle of wine if you're not going to drink it. Gudrun will have it if you don't want it, and they will charge us for it whether we drink it or not," he warned, with a thriftiness I was coming to think of as characteristic.

The flight cases were packed up and carted off by someone from the crew, then we were escorted back out through the now-buzzing backstage village, to a gate where a people-carrier was awaiting us. It always amazed me, on a tour on that scale, how efficiently things just appeared for your use, then disappeared again, only to resurface a few hours later. It was like having a crew of stage hands stage managing your entire life for a few days.

The people carrier whisked us off through the city, the lights of busy neighbourhoods reduced to a smear outside the window. We came to a throbbing, brightly lit downtown area, with people loitering on the streets, all dressed up in party clothes. The driver slowed down as we approached a club, with a marquee above declaring "Kraftwerk Aftershow". An enormous queue almost circled the block, but Gudrun directed us around the corner, making a phone call on her mobile as we pulled up to the kerb. The stage door opened from inside, and a couple of men came out. As Gudrun paid the driver, a couple of young people noticed the taxi, and started to come nearer for a closer look, but now the men from the club were bundling us all out of the cab and towards the door.

Nope, too late. Fritz had turned at the sound of his name, and was now waylaid and signing autographs. Ralf sighed deeply, but then went over to join him, pulling a sharpie from inside his bag. It was all very businesslike, very German, as they formed a human construction line, passing albums and tickets down the chain for all four of them to sign.

"No photos," Ralf insisted, several times, as lights flashed in their faces, though it took the approach of the two bouncers to make them stop. A couple of excited fans yammered things at Ralf in broken English, but he just smiled tightly and said "Danke" and carried on signing as quickly as he could. It was all very orderly and very polite, as if Ralf's calm was simply spreading to the excited fans.

After precisely five minutes, it was as if someone had blown a factory whistle. They all stopped, thanked the fans again, put their sharpies away, and the bouncers cleared a path for us towards the door. I almost got separated from them, in what was quickly becoming a crush, but Ralf reached out, wrapped his hand around my wrist, and pulled me inside, the door closing with a solid thunk behind us.


	20. Aftershow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Müller's groupie-pulling antics at the aftershow mean that Ralf and Katrin end up spending another night together.

The bouncers gave us all wristbands, then as they led us through the depths of the club, I got a chance to look about. Although I had long since given up my illusions that the world of touring was somehow glamourous, it was still a bit of a shock to realise that we had been brought in though the kitchen. But we walked past a storeroom, a food preparation area, a giant industrial dishwasher, then took a narrow flight of steps - dodging a waiter on his way down - up to the VIP area of the club, where we found that two large booths had been reserved for us. We seated ourselves around one, and someone produced a bottle of champagne, as Gudrun texted Günter to find out how soon the crew would be following us. That, I thought, was a nice touch, that the technicians and sound engineers were invited to the same party as the band. Obviously, though, some band members were more equal than others, as people were already starting to notice Ralf, a ripple going through even the cordoned off VIP floor.

Ralf sipped gingerly at the glass of champagne he had been given, then when the host's back was turned, tipped the rest into my nearly emptied glass. I exchanged a candid look with him, but then started to laugh. He just winked at me.

"More champagne?" offered the host unctuously, spotting Ralf's now empty glass.

"Non, gracias," said Ralf, holding his hand over the glass, though honestly, the champagne was so tasty I could have done with some more. "Who is the DJ tonight?" he asked, his head twitching towards the music as if he was itching to dance. "Can we go down to the dance floor?"

The host explained who the special guest DJ was, apparently one of the other performers from the festival, who had specifically requested to be allowed to DJ for Kraftwerk. That seemed like a sweet touch, and though Ralf looked as though he quite wanted to go down and see the decks more closely to greet this DJ, we were shown to what turned out to be an entire private dancefloor, suspended up above the crowd below. It was quite bizarre. From there, we could watch the DJ - who turned out to be James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem - from above, and the main dancefloor below could jealously watch us from below. The sound, though, was good, and Murphy's choice of records was surprisingly good. Ralf stood for a few minutes by the railing, watching Murphy DJ below, his hips twitching as if catching the rhythm, then he backed himself shyly into a corner, and started to move.

I don't know why I was surprised that Ralf was a good dancer. I suppose it was because I had never really seen him dance in the flesh. Onstage, he tapped his feet, and sometimes bent his body in time with the beat, but he never... you know, _shimmied_. Obviously, on YouTube, I had seen videos of a much younger Ralf dancing to Pocket Calculator in the 80s, but it always seemed rather posed, rather self conscious. And yet, as the dance floor started to fill up, with VIPs who had either paid for or been gifted with the privilege of sharing a dance floor with Kraftwerk, Ralf seemed to lose his self consciousness. He was nimble, and surprisingly light on his feet, years falling from him as he lost himself in the beat, his limbs slowly loosening. It was very clear that he enjoyed dancing, and was soon throwing himself about as if there was no one else on the dancefloor.

Walking quickly back to our table, I helped myself to another glass of champagne, then returned to my spot by the railing, watching Ralf discreetly from a distance. It was quite adorable, how utterly unselfconscious he was as he danced, smiling to himself as he moved back and forth.

The VIP area, however, did not seem quite so oblivious to the star in their midst. I did wonder how long he would remained unmolested, as at first, people, men as well as women, seemed content merely to glance at him over their shoulders. Glances turned to stares, then a woman approached him. Initially, she danced a little next to him, while he politely smiled, but mostly ignored her, then she tried to dance with him. At first, I didn't understand why he didn't just dance with her, but he very politely but firmly stepped aside, and I could see him smiling as he shook his head and said something to her. He carried on dancing by himself, as she skulked off, but it wasn't long before another woman took her place. This one was not a day over twenty, and clearly very inebriated. Again, he politely but firmly put her off, and stepped aside. A guy came over and asked him something. I couldn't hear the conversation from where I was standing, but Ralf again, politely declined, shaking his head as the man put his phone away. Autograph hunter or picture-seeker, it seemed. A third woman came over to dance with Ralf, but he was running out of floor.

But no sooner had he got rid of this woman, than the second, very drunk girl came back. This time, she wouldn't take no for an answer, dancing right up close against him and putting her arms around his neck. She whooped with triumph, even as I could see him squirming with discomfort at the unexpected touch, and trying to disentangle himself. I was just on the point of going for a bouncer, when he got free. She reached for his hands, but he pushed her away. I had never actually seen Ralf get cross, but he looked as if he were very nearly on the verge of losing his temper. But finally, a friend came and collected her, half-dragging her away from that part of the floor, at which point Ralf threw up his hands and stalked off, his mood spoiled.

Just as he was stalking back to our table, he caught sight of me standing by the rails, and his path arched towards me. "And you told me you were not a sex symbol," I teased him, as the look on his face changed from sullen to hopeful.

He shook his head dismissively, but immediately demanded "Do you dance?"

"Only when forced," I quipped. He stared at me, puzzled, as I sipped my champagne. "OK.. not a Jane Austen fan, I take it."

"The English novelist?" said Ralf. "I'm sorry, I have not read this."

"She has some very funny things to say about over-enthusiastic young girls forcing men to dance," I explained.

"Will you dance with me?" he repeated, his voice becoming more insistent.

I actually laughed aloud. "What, to protect you from your fans? What on earth makes you think I'll make any difference?"

"They don't bother me when my wife dances with me," explained Ralf with a long-suffering tone. "And I really do need to dance, to shake off all the problems of this evening's performance."

I looked at him, considering him carefully over the top of my glass as I took another sip. "I haven't danced in years..." I started to say, but I could see the disappointment starting to rise on his face. "Alright. Let me just finish my drink."

"Katrin, I will buy you a bathtub of champagne, if you dance with me."

I laughed and tossed back the rest of the glass. He took me by the hand, and led me back to the dance floor. As he positioned himself in the far corner, and moved me to dance between himself and the room, I realised I wasn't partner so much as guard. Well, this was not quite the strangest thing I had ever done in the service of music journalism, but it came close. I closed my eyes, and as the bubbles of champagne smeared my judgement, I caught the beat of the music, and started to sway along, trying to remember how to dance.

I couldn't even remember the last time I had danced. It had to have been at least five years ago. I used to dance all the time, weekly, sometimes even nightly when I lived in the centre of London. And yet somehow, I had turned 40, and started not so much to think it unseemly, as to notice the funny looks and patronising attitudes of those around me when I did. When I was young, I was always the first person on a dance floor, and the last person off. But now, it became harder to tempt myself onto a dancefloor, and easier and easier to drive me off. It wasn't like I had an awareness, of the last time I had felt a beat and chucked myself about to it. There was no "this is the last time I will ever go clubbing" moment. I had just stopped, and never started again.

And yet there, in that strange Mexican club, watching a 70 year old Ralf losing himself in a throbbing Italo-disco track that might have been the lastest Todd Terje, or might have been some obscure single from 40 years previous, I remembered that I loved dancing. Slowly, I started to loosen up, feeling life permeating back into my limbs as if they had been asleep. Ralf grinned as he noticed me starting to really get into it, and stepped towards me slightly. I stepped back, dipped, then spun around and stepped back towards him, surprising him. He moved back, and I followed him, our hips slipping into parallel motion. This was the bit I had really forgotten; how a dance could be like a conversation. He moved slightly to one side, and I followed, then I moved back, and he echoed me, our shoulders tracing figure-8s together in the warm air.

We danced for three or four more songs. I lost track of time. I had a sense that we had left the festival around two in the morning, but I was so shaken up by jet lag that my body was just about ready to wake up and go to work again. I had thought I would grow tired, but my endurance had been raised by all the cycling. In fact, it was a lot like cycling, in that the more I danced, the more I wanted to dance. I started to get rather warm, and pushed my sweaty hair out of my eyes. But Ralf stepped towards me, and raised his hand to my shoulder. For a moment, I wasn't sure what he intended, but then he cupped his hand to my ear, and spoke.

"Would you like a drink?"

"Yes, please! Shall I go..."

"No. Stay here and look after our spot. I will return shortly." He edged his way off the dance floor, then strode purposefully towards the bar. Although I thought he might be accosted by fans, he side-stepped them neatly and went to the service area. A few minutes later, as I leaned into the corner, resting my arms on a shoulder-high bottle shelf, catching my breath, he returned, with a bottle of San Pellegrino and a huge glass of champagne.

"Not quite a bathtub," I quipped, as we clinked our drinks together and drank.

"It was the largest glass they had. Would you have preferred the bottle?" Both of us swigged our drinks, raised eyebrows at one another, then started to laugh. "You see," he said, as we found a space for our drinks on the bottle shelf. "No one has bothered me since you started dancing with me."

"So I'm your bodyguard as well as your ghostwriter. Does that mean I deserve combat pay?"

"OK... but I pay you in champagne, alright?" Taking my hand, he pulled me back onto the floor, as we re-claimed our little territory. He didn't let go of my hand, in fact he took hold of the other one, as the music changed. I recognised the song, even just from the beat, I knew I loved it, and started to move excitedly, swinging my partner around. Ralf started to laugh as the song resolved into a pumping remix of Telex's Moskow Diskow. Placing his hand on the side of my waist, he pulled me closer. "We know these guys, you know," he informed me in a tone of voice that almost sounded like boasting. "We have been cycling with them, in Belgium."

But before I could respond to this new physical closeness, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and someone trying to cut in. "Oh, for fucks sake..." I turned, to tell the fan to piss off, couldn't they see he already had a dance partner, when I saw it was Müller. Guiltily, Ralf let go of my hand, and dropped his arm from my waist. >>You made it!<< I cried, as she pushed another glass of champagne into my hand, and moved forward to dance with me, swivelling her hips around mine as we leapt about to the music. So it hadn't been Ralf the interloper had been after; it had been me. Ralf moved off to dance by himself, and I slurped at my champagne, trying not to spill it on Müller as we shimmied to the beat. But still, two girls proved a better shield than just one, as Ralf got his private dance behind us.

Müller smirked as the song ended, as we pulled apart, and she suddenly spied Ralf. >>Sorry, boss, I know you don't drink, so I didn't think you wanted one.<<

>>Never mind<< said Ralf, sounding a little bit flustered. >>I need the facilities. You two hold our position on the dance floor.<<

"Ja wohl, Chef," said Müller with a cheeky salute, and Ralf went barrelling off as Müller leaned back against the wall, sipping a Corona as she surveyed the room. She had changed into a shirt and tie, unbuttoned to the breastbone, her sleeves rolled up to show off her tattoos, her blonde hair styled up into an extravagant quiff. >>So what's the _chick_ situation like? << she asked with a nudge. >>Or have you been too busy buttering up the boss to notice?<<

>>It's nothing but impressionable, drunk groupies in here<< I sighed. >>And that's my job, to beat the groupies off the boss with a stick, before you give me any shit about dancing with him.<<

>>I said nothing. I know Hütter is an irresistible dancer<< laughed Müller, still scoping the room, craning her neck to check out the dancefloor. >>So where are these drunken groupies, then? Gotta get in there before Stef does.<<

Knowing it was a bad idea, but realising I wouldn't get any more time on the dancefloor with Ralf if I didn't send Müller off on some goose-chase, I stood on my tip-toes, and looked about the room. The drunk girl and her friend, I realised, were actually part of a large gaggle of girls who had taken over a booth on the opposite side of the room, and were staring at Kraftwerk's booths, and whispering among themselves quite animatedly. >>That lot.<<

>>I see<< Müller sucked at her beer bottle, then tapped it against her lips as she observed them for a few minutes. >>Maybe I should introduce myself<< she ventured, digging in her back pocket for her Kraftwerk: Crew pass and hanging it very obviously about her neck.

>>You are shameless<< I sighed, even as I was half hoping for her to go.

>You wouldn't say that if I were a man<< she tossed back, with a saucy smile.

>>Well, I don't see Fritz or Falk going over to chat them up, do you?<<

>>They're all married<< laughed Müller, finishing her drink and running her hand over her quiff. >>Look, I'm not going to make an ass of myself. I'm just going to walk by, on my way to the bar to get another drink, and then back, and if one of them says hello, well, we'll just take it from there. Five euro says they approach me, first, OK?<<

>>I don't bet. But I'll have my earplugs in tonight<< I laughed as she headed off. On the way, I saw her run into Stef, and as the pair of them shouted in each others' ears for a moment, then he reached for his wallet, it seemed like someone had taken on her bet. She turned back towards the dance floor, caught my eye, then made a rude gesture.

Müller didn't walk towards the booth, so much as she sauntered, rolling her slim hips, the crew pass bouncing back and forth across her stomach. She didn't even make one circuit of the room, before the girls accosted her. As she walked by, five pairs of eyes were glued to the pass, and before she had even gone one stride, two of the girls were on their feet, tapping her on the shoulder and enquiring about the pass. Müller turned around with almost comical disinterest, picking up the pass and shrugging, before gesturing over towards the booth where Henning and Falk were enjoying a late supper. I knew that Müller had maybe half a dozen words of Spanish, and only high school English, and none of the girls had given the slightest indication of speaking German, but even from a distance, the conversational gist was clear, as the girls pulled Müller back to their table, sat her down, and plied her with their bottle service vodka.

Müller was clearly loving it, settling back into the booth, and shamelessly flirting with the girls. To my surprise, a couple of them even responded, gingerly touching her hair, and playing with the hem of her tie. Some deal was being worked out, because Müller kept looking over back at the Kraftwerk table. When Fritz reappeared, she got up and walked over, and the two of them talked for a few minutes, Fritz grinning wider and wider as he realised what was being asked of him. Finally, he got up and accompanied Müller over to the girls' table. He shook their hands, posed for a few photos, and signed autographs. Then Müller repeated the performance with Henning.

By the time she was trying to persuade Falk, and the feminine excitement at the table was reaching a fever pitch, Ralf reappeared, handing me yet another glass of champagne. "I am sorry I was gone so long. I had a little chat with our DJ. Nice fellow. Where's Müller?" he asked, looking about, though she was obviously no longer on the dance floor.

"Müller is on the pull," I informed him, and pointed over to the booth, where a bashful and blushing Falk had been persuaded to pose with a beautiful girl on each arm. "She'll be coming for you, next," I teased. "Will you help Müller get laid?"

Ralf clucked his tongue like the disapproving dad he clearly was. "I think Müller is getting too old for this sort of behaviour, and should really find a nice girl and settle down."

I laughed at the idea of Müller ever settling down, as I could see that at least two of the girls had already lost interest in the band, now that they had been revealed as balding, middle-aged men, and had turned their attentions to the far more young, good-looking and stylish excitement of Müller. Obviously, I had noticed that Müller was cute, though more handsome than pretty; but it wasn't until that evening that I noticed exactly how _charismatic_ she was. Already, she had draped her arm around one of the girls, while the other was gazing at her with that slightly cross-eyed drunken stare, like she was getting ready to snog her.

Yup, indeed. Müller hadn't been sitting at their table for more than 20 minutes, when she got her first snog.

"Well," I laughed, relieved that I hadn't actually entered into Müller's wager. "I guess I will be needing earplugs tonight."

But Ralf looked concerned. "You are sharing a room..." he remembered aloud, then lowered his face and looked pointedly at me, his eyes very serious. "Listen. If you do not wish to be in this environment, there is another unused bed up in my suite. I promise you, there will be none of these kinds of shenanigans, up in my room, if you would prefer to sleep there."

Turning to him, I eyed him carefully, trying to gauge his intentions. Ralf, I knew, hadn't had more than a drop of champagne all night, though after 4 or 5 glasses, my head was starting to spin. Two days previous, I had been annoyed enough at this notion that I had button-holed Gudrun to ensure that I did not end up sleeping in his suite. And yet, now I found myself relieved at the offer.

"That's very kind, but are you sure?" I probed. "I don't want to expose you to any kind of... gossip."

"No, no," insisted Ralf. "Don't be silly. Everyone knows we are not that kind of organisation." My eyes flickered across to Müller, who now had her hand down the dress of the first girl, while she kissed the second. At least someone was getting lucky tonight. "Do you want to go now, so you can retrieve your things from your room, or would you prefer to stay and dance?"

I shook my head and reached for my drink. "I am for dancing."

"Good. So am I."

We danced for another two hours. Müller disappeared first, with both girls, of course, leaving the other three to stare hungrily at the junior members of Kraftwerk. Falk, tired of blushing and avoiding their gazes, came and found Ralf, and danced with us for a while, and in the meantime, Henning and Fritz and a couple of the crew left without him. Stef, with his thick glasses and his long, lank, greasy hair, tried his luck with the other girls at the table, but did not seem to get anywhere. We left about half an hour later, as Falk tagged along, leaving Günter and Gudrun to round up the rest of the crew. 

Falk was quite shy, but very sweet. I thought, actually, that Müller had him wrong. He didn't brown-nose Ralf, he was just trying, in a large, shaggy-dog sort of way, to be friendly to everyone. He was, I realised with a start, younger than the other three, only a year or two older than me. He spoke to me very slowly and haltingly, until I realised that it wasn't actually because he was shy, he was just trying to stretch his syllables out, as if making them easier for a non-German speaker to understand. It was a nice gesture, though after more than a month in Düsseldorf, I no longer needed it.

>>It's nice<< he was saying, with a slightly supplicant smile towards Ralf. >>Touring is nice. Because it's one of the few times that we actually spend time together; get to know each other as people. This is the first band I've been in where we don't spend much time together, socially, away from the studio. So when we go on tour, that's when we get to see each other, as people, outside the job.<<

Ralf smiled but shifted a little awkwardly. He liked Falk, but the conversation clearly embarrassed him a little. He had told me during one of our many interviews, that he thought that the level of social interaction at Klingklang was just right. >>It's good that you think so<< he replied non-committally, but kept his contributions to the conversation minimal until we reached the hotel. So I chatted with Falk, and found out about his projects outside Kraftwerk (he played saxophone in a jazz improv group) and asked about his wife, and what she did. (She worked in advertising, as a video editor.) He was lovely, really, but unfortunately completely oblivious to the idea that Ralf and I might want to be alone, suggesting we go and get a nightcap at the hotel bar.

We managed to get rid of Falk by sending him off on an errand to ask reception if there were any messages, and quickly hopped in a lift by ourselves. I was just drunk enough that I felt slightly naughty, going up to Ralf's room, and didn't want any witnesses. As we approached my floor, Ralf asked if I wanted to stop and pick up any necessities, but I shook my head and said that after all that tonsil hockey Müller had got up to in the club, I didn't dare.

"There is the other bed," said Ralf, as he let us into his room. "You might want something more comfortable to sleep in, so let me see..." He disappeared into the bathroom, then reappeared with a large, fluffy bathrobe. "You are welcome to use this. It is quite modest." As I looked around for a place to change, he shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I would like to take a shower before bed. So if you need to, erm..." He gestured towards the bathroom as if embarrassed by its presence.

"Oh yes, of course. Thank you." After several drinks in the club, relieving myself seemed like a good idea.

"If you would like to use any of the hotel toiletries... toothbrushes and so forth... please help yourself."

I padded into the bathroom and peeled off my sweaty clothes, washing my face and armpits quickly in the sink, then brushed my teeth. But then I stopped, staring at myself in the mirror. There was no full-length mirror in the bathroom, at Karlheinz's apartment, so it had been some time since I had seen myself naked. No wonder I kept having to cinch in my belt. After a month of cycling every day, my body was already changing. My legs were visibly less flabby, my calves taut with muscles. That was getting up and over the approaches to the bridge, I thought to myself, turning around to look at my bum. That was still huge and slightly dappled by cellulite, but it was a bit more defined, rounded, shaped by powerful muscles. I would never ever be thin, I knew, but I had started to look _strong_.

Remembering that Ralf was still waiting to shower, I wrapped the huge, comfy bathrobe around me, belted it tight and padded back out. "All yours. I tried not to use _all_ the hot water," I teased, as I dumped my clothes on the bureau next to my bed and climbed in.

I was half asleep by the time he returned, all snug in black silk pyjamas with red piping. They were so perfectly Ralf that I couldn't help laughing. "What?"

"Are those custom Kraftwerk pyjamas?" I giggled.

"These? Oh, you like these? No, they just come from a department store in Krefeld. I was pleased with the colours, though. See, this is the black I like. Soft. Silky." As he stood between our beds, he rubbed his hands down the arms to demonstrate, and for a moment I wondered if he was actually inviting me to touch the cloth. I didn't dare. But then he perked up. "I should have offered you my other pair, but they are in the wash. Oh! Speaking of which. Would you like me to put your things out for you in the wash overnight? They will bring them back clean, first thing in the morning." He gestured towards my dirty clothes.

I got up again to spare him the indignity of touching my smalls, and stuffed the lot into his little laundry sack, as he filled out the laundry form indicating what had been put in. Then he tied it all up, and put on the other bathrobe, to take it out to the drop-off point. When he returned, he climbed into his own bed, but it was just the same as it had been on the aeroplane a few nights earlier. We lay facing each other across the small gulf separating the two beds, just smiling at one another from beneath our blankets.

"Are you asleep?" "No, not yet." "Is the room temperature comfortable for you?" "Oh yes, I prefer sleeping in a cooler room." "As do I." "Doesn't it bother you, having your feet trapped by the tucked-in blankets?" "Well, kick it off, then. I promise not to be overcome by the sight of your well-turned ankles." Tittering, slightly flirtatious laughs from both of us. "Do you know how chimpanzees and other primates sleep?" "Don't they sleep up in the trees? In woven boughs, a bit like nests?" "Can you imagine sleeping in a nest, up in the treetops?" "Well. I'm a little afraid of heights." "So am I." "Have you been up the Rheinturn, then?" "Absolutely not. It looks terrifying. But where are we going next? Are we going somewhere with a rain forest? Perhaps we can sleep in woven nests in a rain forest." "Buenos Aires. I don't think they have rain forests in Argentina. It's grasslands, pampas, isn't it." "Well, you've been there before; I haven't." "There's a tiny British colony there, you know." "The Falklands? Ha ha, are we going to take Falk to his homelands?" "No, not the Falklands. Another colony. They don't speak English there. They speak... what is that language that you speak? Welsh?" "I don't speak Welsh, I speak Cornish."

And so on, and so forth, like a pair of gossiping teenage girls getting to know one another, until the light around the edges of the curtains started to turn faintly pink. We should have been tired, as the jet lag was a killer, but with the time difference, we had actually gone to bed around the time that I would have got up in Germany, and my body didn't feel the slightest bit like sleeping.


	21. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Katrin is suddenly afflicted with the most awful pangs of jealousy, she realises that her feelings for Ralf have slipped well past the professional.

Breakfast arrived at some point. I got up to answer the door, and wheeled in a cart with two vegetarian breakfasts, the same as the previous morning. Our clothes were neatly folded in the sack on the shelf underneath. I fished out my jeans, T-shirt and underclothes, then went back to bed. This time, I slept, though lightly.

A few hours later, Ralf woke. The hiss of the coffeemaker and freshly-brewed smell woke me properly. We ate our breakfasts in bed, chatting as easily as we had the night before, then I crawled off to take a shower and dress. When I emerged, dressed again, he looked at his watch.

"Do you think your roommate may be decent again?"

"I have no idea..." But as I looked at his expectant face trying to wok out what he wanted, I realised that he probably expected me to go. "Do you need me to leave? I can go and check.. it's late enough that I can go and swim or something if she's still... erm, busy."

"Do you mind? I need to make a private phone call." From the guilty look on his face, I realised he needed to call his wife.

I nodded, gathered my things, and went. I don't know why I felt so guilty. Absolutely nothing had happened. The evening had been completely chaste, just lying in bed talking and giggling. The dancing had... well, the dancing had got quite close at times during the night. But it was only dancing. Our bodies had never actually touched, beyond the occasional hand on a waist. It had all been innuendo, the way we had flicked our hips at one another, and swivelled back and forth. But still, there was a part of me that ached, knowing he was going to call his wife. Over the past three days, although our bodies had never entwined, my emotions had become engaged. It wasn't an affair if we never touched, was it? So why was it, the more time I spent with him, swapping little tiny sweet nothings of personal secrets, the more time I wanted to spend wrapped up alone with him?

Down at the room I shared with Müller, I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I couldn't tell if that was very good or very bad, but I slipped my passkey into the slot and let myself in. Oh, OK. Her bed was completely untouched. Dammit, I could have spent the night in my own room, and none of this weird emotional turmoil would ever have happened. Ralf could call his own damned wife without my ever knowing. But as I flopped down on my own bed, I realised that the shower was going next door. So she was in. Shit.

Müller emerged with a broad smile on her face, and love-bites all over her neck and shoulders. >>Oh, hello<< she said, her swagger telling me everything I needed to know about what she'd been up to. >>How was your evening?<<

I shrugged, but couldn't shake the irritation. >>Your bed is untouched. You could have told me you weren't going to sleep here...<<

>>Your bed isn't touched either<< she observed somewhat cattily, as she flopped down in her chair and started digging through her suitcase. When I didn't reply, she turned to me, her face eager for gossip. >>Don't tell me you pulled. Who?<<

For a moment, I considered lying, but then realised that the gossip percolated so quickly through the touring party that she would find out the truth from Falk soon enough anyway. >>I didn't pull anyone. I left you the room, as I thought you were going to bring your... conquests here.<<

>>Maria and Graciella<< she said, and if she'd had chops, she would have licked them. >>Took me back to their apartment to do shots.<< Shots of what, she did not tell me, but her grin spoke volumes. >>Should I have invited you? Where did you sleep anyway? If you tell me you slept on a deck chair by the pool, well I'm sorry...<<

>>I did nothing of the sort. I slept in Hütter's suite.<<

Her eyes went wide with surprise, but then her face lit up. Oh Christ, why had I blurted that out, after all the lengths I'd gone to, to keep it secret? Müller had seen us dancing at the club, I could see it all over her face, what she was thinking. >>Are you two... come on. Hütter? You are kidding me!<<

>>He's married<< I reminded her.

>>But you didn't...<< she probed, her eyes huge.

>>No of course we didn't<< I snapped. >>Our friendship is...<< I couldn't remember the word for chaste, so I substituted the word for clean. "Sauber. Unsere Beziehung ist sauber!"

>>Kate, watch out<< she said, quite softly. >>I know you two are close. Everyone has noticed how tight you two have become. It's all over your face, how you feel about him. But falling in love with someone who is married is a fool's game. And he's our boss.<<

>>I'm not in love<< I insisted, though the tone of my voice didn't even convince me. >>Next time, just drop me a text if you're not using the room. Or buzz and leave a message at reception.<< I twinged with guilt as I remembered how we'd sent Falk off to check.

 

We stayed in Mexico City another day, to recover from the show and its aftermath, then the next morning the entire circus would have to pack up and move to Argentina. There had been some controversy in the weeks before we left, over whether the show in Buenos Aires would be allowed to take place, so everyone was very tense about getting in and setting up before city officials could pull the plug. The crew would have to get up early, to arrange the freighting of the gear, then the band (I wasn't part of the crew, or the band, but I'd been absorbed like a piece of hand luggage into the band's party) would take a minibus to the airport to fly on after it.

I hadn't seen much of Ralf during our day of rest. I explored the district around the hotel, did a bit of shopping and bought a new pair of trousers, now I realised how baggy my old jeans were looking on me. It was an American shop, and I knew the sizes ran much larger than they did in Europe, but I was surprised to find myself fitting into a 14. Had I really dropped a dress size, just from cycling?

I didn't meet up with Ralf again until dinner with the rest of the crew. He was sweet and cordial to me, sitting next to me at dinner, but his attention was mostly caught up with Günter and discussing last-minute details, ensuring that the local government and the police would allow the gig to proceed. I found myself hanging on his every word, wishing I could distract him by placing my hand gently on his waist again, but I didn't dare. I was his employee, and maybe by now, I was his friend, but there was no more to it. He was married, I reminded myself, looking down at his hands, the quick elegant way they manipulated his knife and fork like precision tools as he ate.

The crew discussed vague plans of going on to a nightclub or a bar, but after the previous night's blow-out, no one seemed much in the mood for partying. Ralf, though, caught my eye as the dinner group broke up.

"Would you care for a night-cap? A pina colada by the pool, perhaps."

I smiled, and hoped I didn't seem a hopeless fool for agreeing so quickly. "I thought you'd never ask."

But he beamed with pleasure at my enthusiastic response, and extended his elbow for me to take as he escorted me out into the cooler evening.

We sat mostly in silence, but it was the warm, friendly silence of two people who had sat up all night talking, and no longer needed to say anything. Ralf smiled wistfully, and looked down at the pool, his thoughts far away. "I'm so glad you came on this tour," slipped from his lips, almost as an aside he hadn't meant to vocalise.

"That's sweet of you to say." I blushed, then took a spoon of ice cream to cover the heat on my face.

"No, even Günter noticed it. By day three of a tour, I am usually a bear from jet-lag, making a nuisance of myself to Gudrun. But Günter said at dinner that I seemed in uncommonly good humour. Asked if I'd been taking melatonin. I did not tell him the truth. I think you are good for me." And with this, his nodded his sharp little chin, then changed the subject. "Did you get a chance to swim, this morning?" I shook my head, still trying to get my head around what he had just said. "We never get the chance to sample any of these delights while on tour. It is a shame. I did an hour on the exercise bicycle in the basement gym, this afternoon, but it is nothing like the real thing."

"I miss my bike," I confessed.

"And you did not want to accept it in the first place," he laughed. "I like that you call it _my_ bike, now. We are agreed, then, it is a gift?"

In that beautiful place, eating that beautiful food, I felt no need to argue. "If you say so, I suppose." At that moment, he could have asked me anything, and I would have agreed, I was so pleased just to have his company to myself.

"I believe there is cycle hire in Buenos Aires. We must see if we can arrange it," he asserted with a nod.

 

The next morning, I didn't even argue as Gudrun bumped me up to first class, to accompany Ralf again. But this time, I understood why she smiled at me as if I was doing her a favour. >>He's not riding you too hard, is he? We've tried a couple of times before, to get him a PA. But he's a tricky man, and says he hates having a secretary. Insists they're all shallow and fluffy and useless.<<

>Ah, he's alright<< I conceded. >>He doesn't expect me to make small talk, or entertain him, which is good. But I'm _not_ a PA. Can we just keep that clear? <<

Gudrun laughed and gave me a knowing look as I walked through to the first class lounge to give Ralf our new boarding passes.

It was a shorter flight, and not nearly so turbulent, thankfully. Ralf perused a newspaper to try and improve his Spanish, while I looked down over the shifting landscapes unfolding beneath the plane. I had wanted rainforests, and there they were, spread out below, a patchwork of light and dark green, with shiny silver veins of rivers threaded through. I occasionally pointed out a particularly beautiful view; he occasionally translated an interesting story from the newspaper. And this way we kept each other amused for the whole flight.

We landed into baking heat; I had forgotten it was summer in the Southern Hemisphere. I was getting used to the routine, now, as we collected our luggage, then divided into two groups. I grabbed Müller's rucksack and suitcase, and took them all up to our room, which was a little bigger than the previous night.

Within about half an hour, after I'd showered and changed, I received an excited text from Ralf, saying that there were City Bikes for rent, that one could hire with just a credit card. Not only that, but there was a Museum District within cycling distance, and would I care to spend the afternoon there?

I met him in the lobby, and we found a cycle hire station a short distance from the hotel. He did the business with the credit card, then it allowed us to take two heavy, ponderous bikes that looked suspiciously like Boris Bikes. Ralf wasn't pleased with his mount, but he soon forgot his dissatisfaction once we were underway. As he wove in and out of the cycle lanes - quite a dangerous thing to be doing, a neither of us had helmets - I realised I had never cycled with him before. And despite his age, he was still a speed demon, cycling much faster than I was really comfortable going, especially in an unfamiliar city. But the traffic lights usually proved his undoing, as he would race ahead of me, only to get caught by red light, and I would catch up with him, raring to go at the next intersection.

The Museum District was easy enough to spot once we got there, all grand landscaped parks and Interesting Architecture. Ralf turned his nose up at the main art museum, saying it was only going to be second rate European stuff, but cycled on until he came to a more more unique looking collection, of native arts and South American artists. That caught his imagination, as we found a place to return the bikes, and headed into the cool of the collection.

I liked going to art galleries with Ralf. He made a good companion, giving me just the right amount of space to reflect. Of course, Ralf had a system, whereby he would enter each room, check the guidebook, and quickly scout out the perimeter, seeing what was there, before circling back and spending more time with pieces that particularly caught his eye. While I liked to slowly and methodically circle the room, spending as much time as I liked with each. But somehow it balanced out, and every now and then, we would bump into one another, Ralf gazing thoughtfully at a piece that had really captivated him. We looked first, and then we exchanged thoughts after giving one another time enough to reach a conclusion. We didn't always agree, of course, but he never bullied me into changing my opinion, just asked me what he had missed in pieces I liked more than him, and tried to explain the appeal of things he loved that left me cold.

The next afternoon, he had interviews again, so we couldn't abscond to go and check out the Museum of Decorative Arts. But Ralf seemed to quite like having me along for interviews. When the first two interviewers turned out to be overly serious, rather awestruck young men, I realised that he actually enjoyed showing off a little in the interviews, but for my benefit, rather than theirs. The questions ranged from the boring ("When are you going to release new music", which Ralf side-stepped continually) to incredibly detailed and trainspottery questions about the events of 40 years previous. But Ralf remained in a good mood throughout, answering everything patiently, though not necessarily the way the Serious Young Men wanted, turning everything into a game whereby he tried to shoehorn as many lyrical references into his answers as possible. I knew this was Ralf's subtle sense of humour, his way of side-stepping questions that bored him, but it rather flummoxed the Serious Young Men.

The third interviewer turned out, to my embarrassingly considerable surprise, to be a young woman. A really rather attractive young woman, and, from Ralf's reaction, widening his eyes and standing up straight to greet her, one who was almost exactly his type. She was small and trim, with a very neat figure, wearing a low-cut shirt that showed off her pale, creamy cleavage. I would have been embarrassed to wear such an obvious outfit to a professional interview, but I guess South America had very different standards, I thought cattily. Although her eyes and brows were dark, almost black, her hair had been tinted to a winter-wheat blonde. So much had I gathered from Gudrun and Jutta; Ralf had a definite predilection for blondes.

I smiled at her, trying to be friendly and welcoming, knowing that the feminist thing to do would be to reach out and make an ally of her. After all, my reaction was an unfortunate symbol of how rarely I came across other female music writers. But she eyed me coldly, asked for a cup of coffee, and handed me her tiny leather jacket. I wanted to hit her. 

If a man had treated me that way, I'd have told him where to get off. But Ralf, rather than correcting the mistake, said "Oh, two coffees, please, Katrin," without even turning to look at me.

Rather than storming out, I held my head high as I very obviously dumped the coat in a little pile on a chair, then went next door to make coffee. I made Ralf's the way he normally took it, as I didn't quite dare upset the boss, but I dumped four spoons of sugar into hers, wanting to make it undrinkably sweet. Müller was really starting to rub off on me, it seemed.

When I returned, Ralf was looking at her with a rather silly facial expression as she set up her tape recorder. He was trying to smile appealingly at her, but there was a slight edge of fear to his expression, as if he were afraid of her beauty. He never looked at me like that. I placed a cup of coffee in front of each of them. Ralf said thank you, at least. She ignored me, until I went over and sat down in my customary seat, just to the side of the journalist, where he could still see me.

But this journalist - Sofia de la Somewhere y Something, she had told Ralf grandly - clearly objected to my presence. "Does the PR have to stay with us?" she asked pointedly. "I was told I would have unrestricted access."

"I'm not..." I started to protest, but Ralf cut me off.

"She is not a PR. She is my..." I waited to see how he would introduce me. "Well. She is my Amanuensis."

She just looked at him piercingly. To me, it was obvious that her English, although good, did not extend as far as this obscure word. But I had to hand it to her, the piercing expression was much better than a blank one.

"My, erm... well, a kind of secretary," clarified Ralf.

I died a little inside, as she looked triumphant, bending towards him - and giving him a good view of her décolleté in the process - and patting her little machine. "I don't think we'll be needing any dictation?"

Ralf turned towards me with a slightly helpless expression. Not even apologetic, just the kind of soppy expression that made it clear to me he was fairly useless in the face of a beautiful woman. "Katrin, do you mind?" he offered, though his eyes were conflicted. If I knew him as well as I had come to thought I did, there was a big part of him that didn't want to be left alone with this woman. Or maybe that was wishful thinking, as he was clearly happy to get rid of me.

>>Why should I mind. You pay me, after all<< I said, rather pointedly, in German.

He looked back at me for a moment with a confused expression, as if he didn't quite know how to take this assertion, true as it was. But I picked up my bag, and exited the room with my head held high.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, I told myself as I made my way back down to my own room. I now had the afternoon free, at least until final soundcheck time. (The brilliant thing about the fully computerised consoles was that anyone could soundcheck them, and the band only had to turn up at the very last minute, mostly to get a line-check on Ralf's vocals.) Why was I feeling like this? It was absurd. Sitting down on my bed, I tried to work my way through the complicated snarl of emotions welling up inside me. I felt hurt, yes. Snubbed and disappointed. I'd been dismissed as if I were a servant, and after these few days of intense proximity and even intimacy with Ralf, I'd stupidly allowed myself to think that we were something more than employer and employee. One didn't share one's intimate fears of death with a mere... secretary.

I felt confused. The lines with Ralf seemed to have become blurred all over the place. Obviously, I had had to establish some fairly close intimacy with him, in order to get him to open up to me enough to write his book. That had been manageable, when it had all been just one-way. When I viewed him as the object of my research, rather than a subject who was beginning to know things about me. But now he had started to show an interest in me as a human being, it hurt to feel snapped back to the position of dismissed servant.

What on earth was I afraid of? That he was going to open up to this beautiful journalist with the sleek haircut, tell her secrets that he should have been saving for my book? Was I afraid that he was going to sack me, and hire her instead, to tease his diaries and interview transcripts into this book? That was even more absurd. She didn't speak a word of German, for a start, and her English didn't even stretch as far as 'amanuensis' so how on earth would she ever decipher Ralf's linguistic conveyor-belt gymnastics?

Then I thought about the way that he looked at her, and it was like a burning coal deep in my gut. He looked at her with a mixture of desire and fear, his eyes widening, his pursed lips parting slightly. Ralf had never looked at me like that since he'd met me. I thought of that slightly disappointed, judgemental glance at K21, where he'd evaluated my body and found it wanting. Too tall, too fat, too... too. The way he looked at me, at Klingklang, was the way he looked at his computer terminal when the ding of incoming email sounded, a touch of pleased and self-satisfied, with an edge of curiosity, sometimes even excitement if it was an email he was anticipating or a topic he was really looking forward to discussing. But he never looked at me with any kind of desire. The closest he had ever come was on that first plane journey, when he had accused me of being lonely, and had looked at me as if realising for the first time that I was a human being with an internal life of my own, rather than just a piece of equipment like the robots or the recording consoles.

I was jealous, like I had been when he asked me to leave, to call his wife. My feelings for Ralf were not 'sauber' as I had insisted to Müller. They were messy and complicated and really rather tender. Had I fallen in love with my biographical subject?

No! It was ridiculous. One had to be a little bit in love, a little bit obsessed with the subject of a book, in order to carry on researching and writing it. But the idea of being in love with this 70 year old man, old enough to be a grandfather - well, old enough to be my father. I could never allow myself to be so foolish. I really had to put a stop to it, and pull back. No more staying overnight in his hotel room. No more intimate little trips to art galleries together. No more bumping and grinding in discos. I had to maintain a professional distance, or I was going to be swamped.

When Gudrun rounded us up to get the minibus to the venue (that journalist had had a full hour and a half with Ralf, nearly double what either of the men had got) I made myself sit deliberately on the other side of the vehicle. But Ralf was distracted by a conversation with Gudrun, giving her explicit instructions how Señorita de la Somewhere y Something should be given a photo pass, as well as a press pass, and also if she could please have an invite to the aftershow party. I felt my spirits sinking, realising I would be denied even my little boogie with Ralf now. Well, actually, no, dancing was another of those intimate activities I really should not be participating in with my boss.

When the minibus arrived at the huge, Art Deco venue, I followed the group into the bowels of the building, but as soon as I had received my wristband and passes, I made a mental note of where the dressing rooms were, and set off in search of Müller. She was stacking the flight-cases in order, so that everything could be disassembled and re-packed as quickly as possible, so I did my best to give her a hand. Fortunately, she seemed to sense my delicate mood, and had the sense not to ask any questions, while I didn't volunteer any information. In fact, she seemed quite glad of the company, and started regaling me with a discussion of what she'd heard where the best underground gay clubs in Argentina.

The band emerged and did their soundcheck, while Müller and I watched from the side of the stage, her watching for technical problems while I just tried to avoid looking at Ralf. The idea was absurd. He was an old man, slumped over digital keyboards. Why on earth had I even wanted him to look at me in a romantic light in the first place? I was just lonely, and far from home in an unfamiliar country. Really, I would be far better sticking with Müller, who was at least closer to my age and subculture, if I needed a friend or sparring partner on the road. When it was clear from the soundcheck that everything was in working order, she headed outside for a vape, and I went with her.

I stayed out of Ralf's way, right up through the start of the show. Since they'd had a soundcheck, I presumed he'd been able to fix his own arse-wire, and left him to it. They checked the 3D projection units carefully, and this time they went off without a hitch. At this venue, there was a stage curtain, so when the lights went down, and the pumping beats started to the accompaniment of the curtains parting, revealing the minimal, technological-looking stage, it was so effective the crowd went wild. The enormous arena was full to bursting, and people everywhere I looked were starting to go crazy, dancing. I wasn't in the audience, so I didn't get the full effect of the 3D projections, but seeing thousands of people in those strange glasses, it was a bit of a trip.

Still, I wasn't sure I would ever really get used to the new versions of the songs. The slight syncopation of the beats and the melodies threw me every time. It wasn't the Kraftwerk I had fallen in love with, those minimal, almost austere records. It was like some shiny, new, tarted-up, glow in the dark 3D version of an old friend you'd liked better before their makeover.

Since the technology appeared to be operating normally, clicking along like clockwork, the crew let out a collective sigh of relief, and relaxed slightly. As the band performed, Müller and I went back to the dressing rooms and raided the food that the band hadn't eaten. We split a vegetarian quiche and filled up on salad. Although we ate well, for a touring party, I still was feeling the lack of not having the Carlsplatz vegetable market only ten minutes from my door.

But then the music shifted, and everyone jumped to their feet again. It was almost the end of the first set, and then there would be a short intermission, during which backstage would become a hive of action again. I understood that normally, this would be the place in the set where the robots would be set up to do their mechanical dance set, but for this short tour they had decided not to bring them for cost or logistics reasons. So the band had only a few minutes to relieve or refresh themselves. Then the curtains were raised again, and the crowd went absolutely crazy. The robots appeared only as film versions of themselves on the projection screens above, but no one seemed to mind the humans playing along, as the entire venue seemed to scream with one voice. Then it was all over, the band took their bows, individually then collectively, and the curtains closed again.

Again, I was absolutely amazed by the efficiency with which the crew pulled together the moment the curtains were drawn, to get the gear offstage, then start packing it all up already, into the flight cases that Müller and I had prepared, while the band disappeared backstage. I tried to shadow Müller and stay with her once the performance ended, and the Klingklang crew started to pack up the equipment proper, but it soon became clear that rather than helping, I was simply in the way. With the most fatherly and polite of tones, Günter ordered me to leave the stage, and go and find if Herr Hütter needed anything.

With my tail between my legs, I returned to the dressing room to find that Ralf had changed into his good black suit, and was folding away his stage clothes and the small box with his microphone into the flight case. >>Katrin<< he said with a vaguely tutting tone. >>There are you. Now come, it's soon time to go up to the aftershow.<<

Although I had hoped to skip it tonight, and just be dropped at the hotel on the way to a club, it turned out that the after-party was in a small disco that was attached to Luna Park itself. And to my vast annoyance, as soon as I walked in, I could see that woman, de la Somewhere y Something, waiting near the bar, sipping on a white wine spritzer. Ralf suddenly looked a little flustered, and checked that his hair, which he had combed and strictly parted after changing his clothes, was still in place. Well. There went any chance of a private conversation, I thought bitterly, then remembered that I was supposed to be avoiding any particularly intimate conversations with my employer.

Ralf was still holding his bottle of water from the dressing room, but I had forgotten to grab a drink, so I quickly excused myself and went to the bar to order a drink. Fortunately, Kraftwerk had a tab, and the crew were included on it, so I was able to order something stiff. Then I looked around for anyone I knew, but unfortunately the crew were still packing up, and Ralf had been absolutely buttonholed by that dreadful journalist. So I stood by myself, scoping out the crowd, and thinking everyone looked way too posh and way too slim to ever, ever talk to me.

But luckily, Falk saw me standing alone, and came over to talk to me, clinking his glass against mine. "Prost!"

>>Excellent show<< I told him, though I'd only seen about half of it. >>Did you do the animations for when the Spacelab landed at Luna Park? That looked fantastic.<<

Falk grinned, pleased with the compliment. Really, he was like a big friendly dog, who just wanted to be liked. >>Thank you. I'm pleased with how that went. But what about the new robot videos? Did they work? I was working so hard to get them finished before the tour.<< 

>>They were fine<< I assured him. >>People in the audience went really wild for the robot videos. And Herr Ralf is perfectly back in sync with the others. I know you were worried about that, but it looked wonderful.<<

>>Oh good.<< Looking pleased with himself, he took another sip of his drink and visibly relaxed. But then he gestured over towards the DJ booth in the corner. >>Do you think there will be dancing again tonight? I really fancy a disco.<<

>>You could try asking<< I suggested. >>They're hardly going to say no to you.<<

For a moment, Falk grinned mischievously, as if actually considering it, but then he shook his head. >>No, I didn't bring any of my records with me. And anyway, this doesn't look like the right audience for jazz.<<

But with my prodding, we went over and at least stood by the DJ booth, and sure enough, a young man soon appeared and made his way behind the decks to change records. After a few hesitant glances between us all, the DJ beckoned, and I sent Falk up into the booth to try to negotiate. The music soon started to change, from relaxing chill-out stuff to something with more of a beat, but unfortunately, with Falk still up there, digging through the DJ's vinyl, I felt too alone and exposed to dance.

The night was starting to get a bit awkward. It wasn't so much that I was bored; after all, people watching, especially in a foreign country, was always interesting. But it felt like hard work not to stare at that little segment of the floor, near the bar, where Ralf and the journalist were still deep in conversation. Or, rather, she was doing quite a bit of talking, and Ralf was just gazing at her with that silly expression on his face. And yet I could not explain, even to myself, why I felt so vaguely humiliated by the whole thing.

When Müller arrived, about an hour after I had, I made a beeline for her almost immediately. >>So where are these other clubs you want to go to?<< I demanded, still feeling miffed at the way Ralf was ignoring me in favour of this other journalist.

>>Slowly with the young horses!<< Müller laughed. >>I want to get some of these free drinks in me before we head out.<<

I decided to just join in her drowning my sorrows before going clubbing. Forgoing my customary wine, I decided to skip straight to vodka, and Müller joined me on the hard stuff. She was trying to scope out the girls in the club, but much to her annoyance, the only woman she considered attractive was already being chatted up by her nemesis, Stef. But fortunately, that meant she was less keen on hanging around for any other reason than getting the free drinks in. We finally slipped out, after about twenty minutes and three drinks each. To my own annoyance, I could see that Ralf was still talking to the woman, or rather, he was sitting mutely in a booth, as she talked to him. Fuck both of them. Tonight, I was borrowing a little of Müller's cockiness and had every intention of getting laid.


	22. Fembots Have Feelings, Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katrin and Ralf doggedly evade discussing their feelings about one another, in order to preserve their professional working relationship. Because the professional working relationship is the one that counts. (Or is it?)

Our first order of the evening was getting some local currency, to get into the club, though Müller seemed sure she could persuade girls to buy her drinks once we were inside. We stopped at a cashpoint, and she put in her card, but we were both flummoxed by the exchange rate, as the lowest denomination on offer was 100 pesos. I dug my phone out of my bag, praying for reception, and looked up the exchange rate when the building offered me a WLAN connection. >>Twenty euros is about three hundred pesos, so I dunno. Get maybe five hundred?<<

>>If you are wrong about this, then you are paying me back in Euros, when we get back to Germany<< she muttered, but the transaction went through alright. Rather than risk trying to hail a cab, Müller pulled her scribbled notes out of her pocket, and I looked it up on Googlemaps before we walked out of range of the bank's WLAN. The club was only about five blocks away, and the hotel was ten or so blocks beyond that, so we set off walking. Although Müller had not had time to change, she rolled up the sleeves of her crew shirt to show her tattoos, and quickly combed her hair into a quiff. She looked the part; I didn't.

Although I was expecting a big, glitzy nightclub, the bar we ended up at was a small, discreet looking hole in the wall with blacked-up windows and no street presence. At first it was hard to tell where to go in, but when we stepped up towards what looked like a walk-up entrance, a bouncer stepped out of the shadows and glared at us.

"Hola" said Müller, and I added "Que pasa."

The bouncer said nothing, just stood there with her arms crossed, looking us over. Müller pulled out her vape and took a puff, at which the bouncer cracked a smile. She gestured towards Müller with her head. "Ella, si." Then she shook her head as she looked at me. "Ella, no."

>>Oh, this is hopeless<< I said, feeling like I'd failed some test I never knew I'd been set.

>>No, no<< insisted Müller, before stepping up to the bouncer with her most charming smile. >>She...<< she pointed towards me. >>Is with me. Where I go... she goes.<< The bouncer shrugged, clearly not a German-speaker, so Müller tried again in English. "She is wit me. My friend. I go in, she go in."

The bouncer shook her head. "No straights. That the rules."

"She is not straight. She Bi," insisted Müller, slapping me on the butt with rather too much familiarity.

"Bi?" The bouncer actually burst out laughing.

I just looked over at Müller, annoyed. >>You know what? You go in. I'll just go back to the hotel. I'm not in the mood for the sexuality police.<<

The bouncer stepped towards me, and with some instinctive fear of bouncers, or authority figures in general, I stepped back, bouncing nervously.

But then the bouncer roared with laughter. "She no bi."

>>I've had enough<< I snapped. >>Müller, you go in, and have a great time. I'll see you back at the hotel. Just try not to wake me up, OK?<< I hugged her quickly, then set off into the night, feeling very sorry for myself indeed. I was a fucking failure at everything. As Ralf's total lack of interest in my person, compared to that blonde bimbo showed, I was a total failure at heterosexuality. And here, I'd been judged _not queer enough_ by an Argentine dyke with a greasy quiff and a leather vest. I might as well give up on the whole human race, and all thoughts of sexuality at all.

After a few blocks, I had started to walk the funk off. But then a car pulled up behind me, hooted a few times, and a man's voice shouted something in Spanish about a big behind, and I quickened my pace. He made kissing noises, and I broke into a run. Fortunately, all that cycling had given me the endurance to keep up a run. I lost him at the next intersection, but my guard was up, and when I came to my hotel, I flung myself in through the revolving doors with extra haste. I went straight to my room, took two ibuprofen to make me fall asleep, then burrowed into bed with my pillow over my head.

Müller, at least, was considerate, and managed to get into the room without waking me. I woke once, during the night, at a muffled cry, and looked over to the next bed. And there, to no surprise at all, was Müller, fucking the bouncer from the lesbian bar, with her arse naked in the air.

I hated myself the next morning. Although the bouncer was gone, Müller was sprawled, snoring on her bed, and my hangover was in no mood for the noise. I took a quick shower, then went downstairs in search of coffee and something fried. I ordered a full vegetarian fry-up, then went into the dining room to find a seat.

At a table, already eating, I found Fritz and Henning, so I asked if they minded if I joined them. Fritz made a welcoming gesture, sweeping his bag off one of the free chairs so I could sit down, though they remained deep in their conversation about some obscure aspect of sound engineering that could do with tweaking before the next concert.

As my food arrived, Falk appeared at the door to the dining room, saw me, and came bouncing over like a big puppy. Well, at least someone was pleased to see me, I thought, as I pulled a chair towards the fourth place at the table, so he could sit down.

>>So it looks like you have competition<< he said, with a grin that alarmed me more than slightly.

>>What<< I said very coldly, fixing him with a glare as I wondered what had happened at the aftershow after I left, and indeed, what on earth the band had noticed about the deepening intrigue between myself and Ralf.

>>That journalist<< said Falk, pouring cream into his coffee with a very mischievous expression. I felt all the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, as my cheeks flushed red. >>She wants to write a book on Kraftwerk.<<

I stared at him, feeling the colour draining from my face. It was worse than I had thought. >>Who told you that.<<

>>Ralf did<< he informed me, taking the last slice of toast from the rack next to my plate, and buttering it methodically. >>Isn't that funny. For years, he says he will not authorise a biography, and now he has two people who will do it. It is like waiting for a bus, no.<<

I looked down into my fried eggs, feeling my emotions curdling like the congealing egg yolk. >>Well. I guess that's me out of a job.<<

Fritz looked up from his grapefruit. >>Why do you say that?<<

>>Come on, it's obvious. She's more qualified than I am. And... well, she is much prettier than I am. Of course Ralf is going to choose her over me.<< I hadn't meant to say it quite like that, but it all came spilling out in a rush.

>>Nonsense<< insisted Falk, sounding very matter of fact, as if he were merely offering his opinion on the quality of the toast. >>You are perfectly pretty. There is no competition.<<

Fritz looked even more gobsmacked at this declaration than at mine, so he stared for a moment, then started to laugh. Even Henning cracked a smile. >>Well, someone has a crush.<<

Suddenly Falk become very flustered as he realised what he'd said. >>No. No! Not like that. I think red-haired girls are cute. My wife has red hair, though she dyes it to make it that colour.<<

It was so unexpected I burst out laughing, which only served to make Falk more flustered.

>>No, please. You misunderstand me. I am married. I know that there are musicians who use the excuse of the loneliness of tour to... well. No. I did not intend it like that. I meant only to offer a compliment.<<

Resisting the urge to throw my arms around Falk and hug him, I settled for merely patting him gently on the forearm. >>Thank you. From the heart. You have no idea how much I needed a compliment right now.<<

I finished my breakfast with a much lighter heart. I had no illusions that Falk was nursing any secret crushes, but I knew he was simply too good-natured to lie. But as Henning finished his breakfast, he stretched and looked at his watch. >>Right. Better go up and pack. Check-out time is ten, isn't it?<<

>>What? We're leaving today? Why? What's going on?<< I stuttered.

>>We're on the way again. Equipment went in two lorries last night, but we're following in the bus today. We should have left two hours ago if we wanted to be in Santiago by midnight, but you know how the Chief feels about getting up that early after a gig<< explained Fritz.

>>Oh. Right, I better pack.<< Really, I should have examined the itinerary better, or I would have known that we were driving to Santiago instead of flying, as it was cheaper to drive a busload of Germans across the mountains than to fly them. But at least that solved the quandary of not wanting to be bumped up to sit by Ralf in first class again. On a bus, there was likely to be more space.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a sleeper bus, so I couldn't get a compartment to myself. But it was a large, comfortable coach, with air conditioning, a small kitchen/lounge area at the back, and more than enough seats for everyone to spread out.

>>How long is the drive?<< I asked, as I dumped my suitcase in the luggage compartment downstairs.

>>Sixteen hours, so take what you need from your luggage, and get comfortable<< said Gudrun, counting us all in as we trooped up the stairs inside.

I took my computer and found a seat near an outlet, thankful of the Apple power converter. Setting up my laptop on the little fold-out table, I opened up the document of my manuscript, and set to work on it. If I had competition, well, I couldn't fight it on any other level, except the quality of my work.

Ralf arrived last, looking half asleep, though he paused at the side of my pair of seats, and for an awful moment, I thought he was going to slide in next to me, but he only stood there, watching me. >>What are you doing?<< he asked, with a slightly curious smile.

>>Working on your manuscript<< I replied. >>I've been really slack the past few days, while we've been on tour, but if I've got a sixteen hour drive ahead of me, I can sit down and get to work.<<

He smiled his smug, self-contented smile, but what he said next surprised me. >>Would you like a coffee, while you work?<<

I dragged my eyes away from the screen and looked up at him. >>Alright, if you're having one. Thanks.<<

He dumped his rucksack into the seats behind mine, then shuffled back towards the kitchen, where Müller, who had already worked out every piece of technology in the kitchenette, showed him how to obtain a coffee. A few minutes later, a coffee cup appeared above my head, and I took it, thanking him briskly. Well, that was a reversal.

Although I was trying my best to work, I realised I could see his reflection in the tinted glass of my window. I thought he might distract me, but he drank his coffee swiftly, then wrapped his black hoodie around himself like a blanket, and settled down to sleep.

All around me, people were settling in, but most of the crew seemed to gather in the back lounge, dealing cards for an endless game. It was all very orderly. There was no drinking or smoking or drugs, just endless cups of coffee and the occasional vape. Some people had books, some had their iPads out or worked on their on laptops. It felt like absolutely no rock'n'roll tour I had ever been on. It felt, to be honest, like a nice, quiet, buzzing-hive day at Klingklang, but travelling at 70 miles an hour across South America.

Taking advantage of the quiet, I wrote for about six hours straight, got up, used the bathroom and helped myself to a sandwich, then sat down to write again. With my headphones in, watching the scenery slide past the window, as coast turned to pampas, then pampas turned to mountain, I felt like I was floating in a little bubble. The writing came swiftly and easily, as I carved up huge chunks of the transcripts and transformed them into narrative. After all, this was what I was here for, not flirting with Ralf or playing at being his secretary. It was one of those magical days when the words were just flowing, and I felt like I could go on forever, especially as we climbed into the mountains, and seemed to be driving straight into the sunset, so the day felt like it would never end. Oh, those blessed days when I could bang out 15,000 words in a long continuous stream. I carried on writing after the sun set, no longer distracted by the view, and into the small hours of the night, not stopping until two in the morning, when the bus finally pulled into the driveway of a hotel in Santiago.

I got a text from Ralf at about 11 am the next morning, asking if I'd had brunch, and if I wanted to go and check out some Chilean design museum. Resolving not to go on any more of those intimate little not-a-dates, I texted back saying that I was on a roll, and had to finish the chapter I'd been working on the previous day, and edit it before I lost the train of thought. Ralf texted again, telling me that we were on tour, and really I didn't need to be working quite so hard, and really, he did want my company at the art museum, because when would I ever be in South America again? I wrote back and reminded him that I was his employee, and that he was paying me to do a job, and that I was going to do it, under the terms of the contract I'd signed. It was hard not to read the silence that followed as sulky, but at least he left me in peace. I had another stunningly productive day, writing 10,000 more words and rounding off the Man Machine chapter.

The next day, the day of the final concert, Ralf's texts were more insistent. 'Listen. I understand that you have been writing and I've tried to be patient, but I really do need you today.'

'Whatever it is, can't you get Gudrun to do it? That is, after all, her actual job?'

'Klingklang is, as you know, a small organisation. We need everyone to be able to take on all sorts of roles, at any time. Now please could you come up to my room.'

Furious, I closed my laptop, packed it away in my suitcase, grabbed my bag, and made my way up to Ralf's room as sullen as a teenager.

After letting me in, Ralf sat back down at his desk, peering at his iPad screen with a vague frown, open to his email inbox. He was wearing his glasses, giving him a slightly distant air. "So here you are at last. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me." His voice was slightly snide, as if he was trying to make a joke, but there was genuine anger behind it.

I just glared at him for just a moment too long, and his frown deepened. "Well, what is this urgent problem," I said at last, to break the uncomfortable silence.

But he seemed to have forgotten the crisis. " _Are_ you avoiding me?"

"Irrelevant question. I am here. What's the problem."

"The publishers have got back to me. They want to publish an exert in the NY Times Culture Section as a teaser, and they have come back with some changes that they want me - well, you - to make. But I am concerned, now, that one of my employees - one of my _friends_ \- is avoiding me."

I didn't mean to say it aloud, but it just slipped out. "Well, maybe you can get Sofia de la Somewhere y Something to edit it for you," I flipped back snidely.

Ralf sighed deeply and took off his glasses, putting the iPad to sleep and turning his chair towards me. "I thought this might be about that."

"Oh, congratulations, Ralf," I heard my voice say, as I realised that I was overtired and more than slightly emotional after a week's worth of jet lag and disturbed sleeping hours. "You have finally noticed that I am not just a human tape recorder, that I am actually a sensitive human being, and that I have feelings, that do not like being played with, by you or anyone. Find someone else for this nonsense."

Ralf looked at me, completely puzzled, his whole face curious and confused. And as I realised that my outburst had been completely over the top, and out of line, I suddenly became very afraid, and scanned his face for signs of anger. But I found none, as he continued to study me quizzically, as if I were a puzzle that needed solving. "Well, what are these feelings. Maybe we should discuss them. Hear them out."

I tried to calm down and pull myself back from the brink of dissolving in a messy emotional puddle all over his hotel room. "Well, obviously you've found another writer whom you like better than me."

Cocking his head to one side, Ralf considered this for a moment. "Sofia? You are concerned about Sofia? Well. The woman is annoying, and persistent, and my god, she does not know when to stop talking. I could hardly escape from her all night. But the publisher recommended her to me as a _translator_. They suggested that she might be the one to translate the book into Spanish for the South American markets. She is not after your role."

I stared at him, feeling suddenly very foolish. He thought she was annoying? Suddenly I saw the silly expression he had been looking at her with in a completely different light. Reading facial expressions was still not something I was particularly good at. "Well, you were looking at her like..." My voice trailed off as I realised how absurd it was to even be acting this way, and I wished I could roll back the conversation and start it over again, in a more rational and thoughtful manner. I tried to take another tack, but this one was even worse. "I was... I was jealous."

"Jealous." His eyes were very wide, as he was looking at me with an even more and more curious and intent expression. "Jealous, how."

"Well, I thought... you know..." I mumbled, trying desperately to backpedal. "You know, my job."

"Are you sure that we are talking about your job?" he probed, his eyes huge. "These _feelings_ of yours... you are not acting like an employee fearful for their job, you are acting like a... woman." It seemed to surprise him, to realise that I did, in fact, have a sex, and I saw him looking me up and down as if to ascertain the fact. I did not wear those stupid low-cut tops that Sofia had worn, or those stiletto boots that stretched one's legs into a shapely form, but the uncomfortable fact of my body still confronted him. "Tell me about these feelings."

I stared back at him in absolute fear. "No," I said very quietly. "Please don't. Just don't ask me that question. I... I'm sorry. I have acted unprofessionally, and I apologise. Please, can we just let it drop now."

He looked away, his face suddenly rather troubled. "Oh, Katrin. I am a selfish old man. We have been spending a lot of time together, too close together, maybe, on this tour. I have to admit, I have... enjoyed it. You and I, we have a lot of _fun_. We really do. You're funny, and clever, and sharp, and I like the way you think... I did not flatter myself to think..."

The fear in my voice turned to terror. "Ralf, please, no. Please can we not have this conversation. Please can we just change the subject. Can you just tell me about these edits you want." I just didn't want to do it. I didn't want to have the discussion of my awful embarrassing feelings and the gentle let-down and the 'I'm sorry, I like you a lot but I'm married, and also... ew' conversation. I was just feeling too bruised for that.

Ralf shrugged, with a deep sigh, and turned back to his iPad, opening up the email from his publisher, and I could see the request, specifying 'we don't want anything too salacious, and we don't want anything too technical, we just want something that shows some insight into your creative process...'

I skimmed the email quickly, and thought through what I had written, trying to calm the roiling ocean of my emotions by getting back down to work. "Hmm. I've got an idea. Do you remember how you were telling me, when you first got the Minimoog, and the instruction manual was in English, so you took it to that fellow... the laser artist you had performed with before?"

"Becker, yes." Ralf supplied the missing name.

"I can take out the overly technical bits of how you worked out the oscillators and the ADSR filters, but I think that passage, where you described how... although you were slower than Florian in picking up the technical aspects of how to control the thing, you grasped intuitively that this was not a machine for duplicating existing sounds, but for creating an entirely new type of music... I think that shows most clearly, how your mind works. People think of you as a boffin, but you're more than that. You're not just some egghead, twiddling knobs. You had this intuitive insight into the creative capabilities of the thing. That the questions you asked were not... 'how does this _work_ ' but 'what can be _done_ with this thing'. I think that says a lot about you, as an artist."

"Hmmm," pondered Ralf. "Well, we were not very technical in those days, but we learned very fast. Please do not make us look like fools, or what is the English term... Luddites."

"Come on, Ralfi," I teased. "Would I make you look stupid? Let me go downstairs and get my laptop, and we will work on this together. You tell me how you want to edit it."

Ralf nodded and went back to going through his emails. But just as I got to the door of the room, and opened it, he suddenly turned, and looked back at me, his blue eyes very sharp. "Katrin..." he called. I stopped and turned around. "Please, you should know. I have _feelings_ , too."

The way he said it was so ambiguous, the emphasis definitely on the feelings, rather than on the I, that I totally panicked. I shut the door quickly behind me, and fled. I punched the buttons for the lift, but it didn't come fast enough, so I fled to the stairs, running down all fifteen flights in a tizzy. Calm down, I told myself, as I finally reached my floor. He didn't mean it like _that_. It was just a plea for me to be cordial, to be professional, and talk things through, rather than avoid him or go off in a huff. After spending so much time together, it had been rude to put him off when he asked me to go to the Museo de Chile. It had been a perfectly reasonable request, and I had been offhand, even rude, and deliberately so.

But as I let myself into our room, then dug through the suitcase to find the laptop, doubt kept clouding my mind. He had wanted to talk about it, to talk through it, and I had rudely shoved him away. But what had there been to talk about? My feelings, my intense, useless, stupid crush on my employer, it was totally inappropriate and unrequited and impossible. What was there to say about that? Ralf didn't talk about his ~feelings~ - he just gave orders and intimations that things were to be done, the way that he wanted them. I did not want to be ordered to stop a crush I had no control over. I couldn't bear it. I would be kinder to Ralf, I resolved, but that was one subject we would not address.

I stuffed my laptop into my bag, followed by the power cable and the international converter pack, then collected myself as I rode the lift back up to his floor. When I knocked on the door, he opened it as if he had been waiting for my return. He looked at me long and hard as I carried my bag towards the desk, where he had set up two chairs side by side. It felt like one of his tests of some kind, but I knew I could not flinch. I did not deviate even a micron from the expected professional demeanour. Ralf stared now, quite openly and quite hard, as if expecting me to say something, but I was determined not to react. Finally, he gave up, and gestured for the one chair, while he took the other, and we sat down to work.

We worked well together. That was the thing that pulled me out of my wobble. I would edit, he would make suggestions, and I would bat his suggestions back at him. We had a certain honestly with one another, that might have looked excessively vigourous to anyone who had not seen us working together before, but it was a real gift, to be able to have that kind of back-and-forth. He always made me have to defend every single phrase, and I did the same thing to him, but between the two of us, it made the writing that much stronger. And besides, it wasn't done roughly, in the sense of being mean. It was very playful, as we shared the same delight in silly puns and wordplay, tossing jokes back and forth between the pair of us.

We might have been a little shy, a little standoffish at first, with those terrible _feelings_ still bruised. but after about an hour, we were discussing with the same intensity and intimacy as if we had never had any sort of a fight. It felt right, the two of us working together like this. That intimacy we had been building up, we had built it for a reason: so that I knew him well enough to turn his words and his voice into a good story.

As I chopped and chopped to get it down to match the tight wordcount the publisher had given us, Ralf called down to room service, and ordered sandwiches and more coffee to be brought up. He ate while I typed, and I ate while he read my work aloud, but by the time we had to catch a taxi to soundcheck, we had a draft we were both happy enough with to send off to the publishers.

Then he packed up his bag, and I made him stop off, down at Müller's and my room to drop off my laptop, and we went downstairs to get a cab. He was pleased with the work; I could see the pride beaming all over his face. And he seemed pleased with me, asking me to come backstage and chat to him in the dressing room after soundcheck. Although I had been determined, that morning, to spend less time in these intimate little tete a tetes, and leave myself less exposed to that kind of situation where our boundaries got all blurred, all he had to do was smile at me, and I found myself doing whatever he asked, just to please him. When he complimented me in front of Gudrun, I found myself blushing, even as I could not help but crumple with pleasure.

>>We made the right choice<< he told her, in a voice that was clearly meant to be heard. >>We have finished the piece for the _Times_ in only one afternoon. She is a very hard worker, this one. Dedicated. << But then his face twisted into a mischievous little smile. >>She knows how to be quiet, when I need quiet, and she knows how to be entertaining when I ask her to talk. A valuable asset. A very valuable asset to the Klingklang family.<<

Even I thought he was laying it on a bit thick at that point, but it just pleased me so much to receive compliments from him. It wasn't even my crush responding, it was my ego, my self confidence putting down roots in shallow soil. But Gudrun looked at me, long and hard, and I could not read Gudrun at all. I was starting to learn how to read Ralf, more and more - though obviously I got him wrong, as the episode with the journalist confirmed - but Gudrun, well, she scared me a little. I could never tell if Gudrun liked me or not. Obviously, she was always pleasant to me, and I do think she was grateful that I had taken over the day to day admin of Ralf and his endless demands. But there was something either in her gaze, or in Müller's stories of her feud with Jutta, that made me never quite able to relax around her the way I could relax and be myself around Müller.

I could tell from the tension in Ralf's facial muscles that stage time was drawing near. By the third night, I had definitely learned to spot that. Ralf grew more and more silent, and his entire body seemed to tense up. In his dressing room, I could see him do some stretching exercises, trying to limber himself up for the performance, but the tension seemed to energise him.

>>Well, time for the show<< he said, standing up and moving towards the door. But I swear, as he passed me, he took my hand for just a moment, and gave it a little squeeze, for luck, for reassurance, for what I don't know. But that little squeeze just made me forget myself, and all my careful thinking that morning, and sent me tumbling back down into crush again.

This time, I did not go off backstage with the rest of the crew. I stood in the wings and watched, though this time I did not watch from the soundboard, or even from Günter's side of the stage, but from the other, standing only a few metres away from Ralf. I watched him, not as a journalist watching their subject, or as a fan watching their favourite band, but as a lover. I watched his every move, his every gesture, the slightly exaggerated concert pianist's way that he decorated his playing with little gestures, the way that he bent his knee forward, not just to control the volume pedal under the keyboard, but as if he could physically press himself into the music by approaching its apparatus. And I watched his face, those thousand tiny impressions flashing across it as he played, pleasure, concern, pride, irritation, a flash of pain, then a flash of joy, but mostly alternating that intense Ralf look of concentration, and that very typical little smug smile of a job well done that was my overwhelming image of Ralf. He didn't look at me. I don't think I could have borne it if he had, but he concentrated the entire weight of his attention onto his music, with only the occasional glance out at the audience, or the flicker of an acknowledgement of Henning or Fritz.

To watch him was a strange pleasure. How different was this chubby, contented, slightly stooped old musician, from the image of Ralf I had first come to Düsseldorf with. And yet this was the person I had grown to know, and was awkwardly, impossibly, coming to love.

 

\----------

 

I woke with a slow, loud, thump in my head, and the slightly sour, furry taste in my mouth that indicated I had drunk far too much, and warned me that a hangover was probably somewhere in the post. My pillow was too warm, and slightly too high, but as I reached round to move it, I realised I was not lying with my face on a pillow, but on someone's chest. Tentatively, I moved my hand up it, feeling the softness of the belly, but the flesh sloped down as I reached the ribcage, and the breast beneath the rumpled button-down shirt was small and hard. It was a man. I moved my head slightly, not even daring to raise my eyes and look, but I knew without even checking that it was Ralf. The smell of him, that slightly waxy pomade he used on his hair, even the faint tang of his sweat, I already knew it was him.


	23. The Missing Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Ralf and Katrin have ended up in bed together. How on earth did they get there?

Ralf was asleep beneath my head, his chest still rising and falling in long, low, even breaths, his heartbeat steady and solid, the slow thump that had been sounding in my ears like a drum. One of his arms was wrapped around my shoulders, holding me against him, and for a moment, I panicked. But I glanced down and saw that we were both fully clothed, though I could not quite tell if my reaction was relief or disappointment.

I moved my hand gently across his chest again, feeling a great aching somewhere in the core of me. To touch Ralf, to embrace him, to hold him in my arms, it was almost too much. I hated myself for doing it, knowing the danger if he woke up, aware that to touch him like this in his sleep was deeply, deeply wrong, and yet I felt compelled to carry on feeling him. The gentle paunch was soft and comfortable to the touch, his chest firmer, his shoulders supple, those great muscles that guided his arms as he played. I didn't dare to touch the exposed skin of his neck, the creases and folds that belied his still-boyish face. My fingers splayed across his sternum, feeling for sinew and bone beneath the cover of his cotton shirt. He was warm, and solid, and reassuring. But mostly, his body was soft. It was pleasant to lay my head against his chest, and inviting to run my hand across his belly. Ralf was soft, and slightly cuddly, and more than a little feminine. The fact delighted me. I wanted to curl my whole body around him, and squeeze him like a teddy bear, but hardly dared to move, contenting myself only with my wandering fingers.

His chest heaved, and then fell, and for a moment, I was terrified that he was waking, and that I would be caught, taking my clandestine delight in his body. I started to gently remove the offending hand, but his left hand, the spare hand not draped around my shoulders, suddenly caught me by the fingers, and gently placed my hand back on his chest with a little pat. Was he awake? His breathing had not changed. Perhaps he was asleep, and dreaming of his wife. But as I started to move my hand gently in little circles around his nipple, the hand on my shoulders started to creep down my back. He brushed down my shoulders, across the expanse of my upper back, then rested on the small of my back, a place he had touched me dozens of times before, and yet had never quite felt so erotic. I almost held my breath, widening my circles with my fingertips, deliberately exploring, until I noticed that one of his shirttails was untucked, and wondered how easy it would be to push my hand up inside.

And then his hand moved again, moved lower, grasping towards one lobe of my arse. I was wearing light linen trousers, on account of the South American summer, and I could feel the weight of his hand upon me as if they weren't there. At first the hand just lay there, as if testing my reaction. I moved closer to him, shifting my upper leg to rest it lightly against one of his. All over the lower half of my body, I could feel my skin prickling, crying out for his touch. He started to move, ever so gently, exploring with his fingertips, reaching lower and lower down, describing little arcs with his fingers before gently kneading the soft part of my arse with the palm of his hand.

I was intensely awake now, my whole body alert, as I could feel desire coiling between my thighs. I didn't stop to think about what we were doing; I just _wanted_. I moved my hand lower down, pushed it up under his shirttail, only to encounter the taut cotton of his undershirt, still tucked into his trousers. But he arched his back, and grappled with his other hand, pulling it out of the way for me. My hand slipped inside, and touched his skin, warm, smooth, and very very soft. The _softness_ of Ralf, it delighted my fingertips. I pushed higher, feeling the ridges of his ribs beneath the soft layer of fat, then my fingers felt drawn to his nipple, pinching it gently between thumb and forefinger to bring it to life.

He moaned gently, grasping my arse and squeezing, trying to push his hand between the two lobes, and I finally looked up, into his face. He was definitely awake now, gazing down at me with that intense expression of curiosity, not what I thought of as desire, but a look like a scientist gave an unexpected experimental result. _Well, what's this, then._ His eyes glittered, looking more intensely blue than I had ever seen them, in the dim morning light. His whole attention was on me, lifting his head slightly, so I could see the set of that magnificent jaw. He parted his lips slightly, moistening them with his tongue, and the thought suddenly occurred to me that if I raised my head about three or four inches, that I could actually kiss him. My own lips twitched, parting almost involuntarily as I felt his hand move across my arse, but I abruptly remembered the sour taste of the previous night's alcohol, and just thought, oh my god no, my breath must stink...

Across the room, abruptly I heard an odd scraping noise. My head pulled back, suddenly alert, as the scraping noise was followed by a rattle. In a room so quiet that Ralf's heartbeat had sounded like a drum, the rattle of the door's lock sounded almost shockingly loud. About a heartbeat later, I realised with alarm that we were not in Ralf's private room upstairs. We were in my room. And someone in the hall outside was swearing softly in German and fiddling with the lock.

"Müller!" I said aloud, and pulled my hand out from his shirt as if it had been burned. Disentangling myself from his embrace, I rolled out of his arms and off the bed, looking about. For a moment, he just lay there, looking almost bereft with disappointment, and in that split second, I saw the tenting in his trousers and realised he had an erection. "Get up," I hissed, and he clumsily pulled himself upright, swinging his legs over to perch on the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes as if dazed. "Get out of here..."

"Where?" he asked urgently, looking terribly confused, but I tried to keep my wits about me as I looked around, taking in the pile of our shoes by the bed.

"The bathroom," I directed. "Just go in the bathroom and... tidy yourself up." Fortunately, he did not even argue, he got up and sloped off quickly into the other room. "Your shoes!" I hissed, and chucked them in after him, just before he closed the door.

Trying to pull myself back together, not even daring to think of what might have happened were it not for the interruption, I strode towards the door, and realised that the deadbolt was drawn. No wonder Müller's keypass was not working. I drew it back swiftly and silently, then pulled the door open.

>>Oh. Hello<< said Müller, looking up at me somewhat guiltily as she tried to stand, unsteadily, in the hall. She was very dishevelled, and stank like a brewery, but thankfully her inebriated state meant she still thought her own drunkenness was the reason for her inability to open the door. >>Stupid keypass, these things never fucking work for me<< she supplied apologetically as she stumbled into the room.

>>Well, clearly, I don't need to ask if you enjoyed the end of tour party<< I teased, as memories of the previous night started to filter back through. There had been a party, and dancing, and drinking - an uncharacteristically lot of drinking for the sober Germans.

>>I just need to keep drinking until we get back on the plane. I'll sober up in Germany...<< Müller muttered, looking in the minibar. There was actually half a bottle of wine in there - mine from the night before, I realised with an uncomfortable memory. >>Can I drink this?<<

>>Sure<< I shrugged, wondering what on earth I was going to do with the man in the bathroom.

But Müller abruptly pulled herself to her feet again, forcing the issue. >>Oops, better empty some of the old wine out before I put any new wine in...<< she giggled, heading for the bathroom. But when she got to it, the door was locked. >>Oh, shit, don't tell me I need a keypass for my own bathroom<< she muttered, reaching into her pocket, but I interrupted.

>>Someone's in there.<<

>>Who?<< she demanded, then her eyes opened wide.

I shrugged defensively, before she could launch another question. >>Who do you think?<<

She looked at me blankly for a moment, then abruptly the penny dropped. >>Did you fuck the boss?<< I had no idea if she was just teasing, or if for a split second she actually saw the truth, but I hoped guilt didn't shine all over my face, as I shrugged.

>>Do I look like I got fucked last night?<<

She studied me for a split second, taking in the state of my clothes before rolling her eyes, deciding to rile me instead. >>Ha! As if. The day you deign to fuck anyone is the day the world will surely end.<< But before I could protest as this unnecessarily harsh joke, she moved over to the door and pounded on it. >>Hütter! I need the can!<<

The door slowly swung in. To my great relief, Ralf was perfectly dressed, his hair precisely combed, his shirt tucked in, his boots on, though I could not help but notice that his erection, though concealed slightly by his loose trousers, had not subsided. He stared down at Müller with a slightly paternal expression. >>Now, Müller, there is no need to shout at this time of the morning.<<

She mumbled something and pushed past him, only intent on the loo, slamming the door and leaving Ralf and I staring at one another. His expression utterly changed as he looked at me, from a slightly paternalistic frown to a completely helpless quizzical smile. So he had no idea what had just happened between us, either?

>>Katrin<< he said softly, moving towards me, raising his arms as if to touch me. >>Will you come up to my room for breakfast?<<

>>Ralf, no<< I said, just feeling my emotions all churning up inside me. >>If we have breakfast, we should do so downstairs, in the dining room.<<

He stood in front of me, studying me with those intense blue eyes, then raised one hand to my face. For a moment, I thought he was going to cup my cheek, but instead, he tenderly pushed a strand of my hair back out of my face, and tucked it behind my ear. My skin ached for his touch, even as I stepped back and turned away. >>You don't think we should... talk about this...<< he started to venture, but I shook my head briskly.

>>There's nothing to talk about, Ralf<< I said, as firmly as my wavering voice would allow, lowering my voice to almost inaudibility to add. >>You are married.<<

He stepped towards me, an absolutely ridiculous expression on his face, and started to say >>But you...<< but abruptly the door rattled, and Müller emerged, looking slightly more relieved, but still ready for mischief.

>>Don't suppose you want some of the hair of the dog, Hütter<< she offered, returning to the half-finished wine bottle.

>>No thank you.<< He turned to me, his eyes pleading. >>I'll see you downstairs in the dining room in twenty minutes, then.<<

>>Need a fortifying glass of wine to deal with that?<< offered Müller with a giggle, extending the bottle towards me, but I shook my head.

>>I need to take a shower<< I sighed.

In the safety of the bathroom, with the door locked, and my head drenched under the warm water of the nozzle, I tried to think through the jumbled memories of the previous evening.

The band - plus Gudrun and me - had gone over to the aftershow club in a minivan. I had been sitting between Ralf and Falk, joking with Falk about the performance, when I realised that Ralf had extended his arm along the back of the car seat. It had been an innocent enough gesture, but I could not resist sinking back into him, and his arm had crept forward until it was resting, not on the car seat, but on my shoulders. At the time, I thought I had imagined it, thought I had read too much into the gesture, but now I wasn't so sure.

We'd arrived at the club in the usual mass of people, being swept up the steps and past the queue, admitted by the bouncers into the depths of the club. Ralf had kept a tight grasp on my arm, trying not to lose me in the crowd, but we were quickly ushered into a booth. A bottle of champagne had gone round. Ralf had put his hand over his glass, asking for sparkling water, but I had drunk deeply. Everyone was in a marvellous mood, flushed from the performance - which had been the best of the tour - and excited by the end of the tour, and the prospect of home.

It was Falk who had initially asked me to dance. Müller arrived around the same time, grabbed the champagne bottle off the table, and headed with us to the floor. We didn't have a private dance floor that night, but we soon carved out a space for ourselves. Müller, in particular, was checking out the girls in the room, and I had to admit that the women in this club were particularly beautiful.

>>Ah, I wish we'd gone to Brasil on this tour<< shouted Müller into my ear, as she tried to throw an arm around my neck. >>The girls in Brasil, my god, I have never seen such beautiful women.<<

Falk had been very amused by the whole conversation, teasing Müller >>You know, you are incorrigible. You are worse than any of the male roadies we have ever had working for the band.<<

>>What, even the legendary Flür?<< Müller laughed.

>>A bit before my time<< confessed Falk. >>I was 12, the last time he toured with the band.<< I looked at him, and counted back, realising he was barely older than I was.

But Müller ignored the teasing, dancing over towards a girl who had caught her eye; a very tall, very slim girl with raven black hair in a chic flapper bob, wearing a miniscule gold dress.

I giggled and moved back over to Falk. >>I don't know how she does it. I bet they'll be snogging within twenty minutes.<<

Falk had to bend over to talk to me, whispering into my ear in that slow, careful voice of his. >>How do you cope with it, sharing a room with her?<<

>>We're friends; I try not to let it get to me. But it's a bit frustrating, at times. That she pulls all the time, and I never do.<<

Only keeping up the barest appearance of dancing, Falk looked at me with a slightly pitying glance. >>Do you not have a boyfriend, back in England, or...?<<

I rolled my eyes, getting a little sick of the question. Sure, it was nice the way we were all getting to know one another on a personal level on the tour, but I found this line of interrogation was starting to grate. >>No<< I said, as simply as possible.

Falk almost stopped dancing completely, looking down at me with a concerned expression. >>Really? A pretty girl like you? Would you like me to... Well. I have some single friends. Nice fellows, jazz musicians. Probably about your age. If you like, I could introduce you?<<

I burst out laughing, and put my hand gently on Falk's chest, to pretend to push him away as I said >>That's very kind of you to offer, but thank you, no...<<

>>Oh.<< Realisation suddenly dawned on his face. >>Are you like Müller, do you prefer girls? I could ask my wife if she knows...<<

And as if appearing out of nowhere, Ralf suddenly wanted a dance with me, pulling me away and frowning at me. >>Falk is married, you know<< he said, with a strange edge to his voice.

>>I know<< I giggled, still amused at this idea of Falk playing matchmaker. >>I think he was just trying to set me up with one of his single buddies.<<

But something about the idea had really annoyed Ralf. >>This is a very bad idea. Falk's friends are all reprobates; unsuccessful artists and penniless Jazz musicians. This is not the type of man you want, at all.<<

>>And what kind of man do you think I want?<< I teased, resting my hands lightly on Ralf's shoulders as we danced.

But Ralf took the question seriously, not realising that I had meant it as a joke. >>You need someone very intelligent<< he said solemnly. >>And someone a little more successful than you, so that they will not be intimidated by you. A slightly older man, I think, would do you good. To provide stability. One with some money, who could take care of you a little.<<

>>Well, that sounds like someone we know, doesn't it<< I laughed, taking his hand to spin around before dancing back to him. We danced well together, too. It was something I had really come to enjoy about him.

>>Who are you thinking of?<< Ralf genuinely looked perplexed for a moment, before frowning even more disapprovingly. >>You cannot possibly consider your landlord?<<

I hooted with laughter at the very idea. >>Never mind, Ralf.<<

Müller had reappeared at the end of the song, without the girl, but with a saucy grin. I was about to ask her if her fabled luck had run out, but she needled me with her elbow. >>Just going to the bar to get Valentina a drink. Do you want anything?<<

>>Valentina is it?<< I teased. >>On a first name basis already?<< But of course I asked for a glass of wine.

The hour had grown later and later, and the dance floor had grown hotter and hotter. I was sucking down glass after glass of that cold, white wine because I was so warm, but Ralf and I were having too good a time dancing to stop. The girl - Valentina - joined us when we finally went out to a balcony to cool off. She and Müller were having difficulty talking, as they struggled to find a common language. Valentina kept insisting on trying to teach Müller a few phrases of Spanish, though she showed no interest in learning German. Ralf, whose Spanish was quite good, was unwillingly enlisted as a go-between, but I suspected that he was adding, or removing rather a lot. Several times, I thought I caught him tell Valentina that Müller was a good girl, really, but needed to meet someone special and settle down, which made Valentina hoot with laughter, as Müller demanded to be told what Ralf had said.

Valentina fixed Müller with a devastating gaze, then disappeared. >>Are you going back to hers, or am I going to have to find somewhere else to sleep?<< I asked.

Müller, whose cocksure confidence seemed to have been shaken a bit, stared in the direction she had gone. >>I... don't know.<<

A few minutes later, Valentina reappeared bearing a small tray with four shots of something that looked really quite potent.

"Beber, beber!" she insisted, picking up one, and gesturing that we should take the others. Müller and I complied, but Ralf just stared at the liquor with a suspicious face. There were a few moments of conversation between the pair of them, as Ralf insisted he didn't touch spirits, and Valentina acted as if this was some slight on her hospitality. Already, even before we took the shots, I could see that she was starting to take a far more flirtatious attitude towards Ralf than she had towards Müller.

But then Müller said "Prost!" and downed her drink, so I felt compelled to do the same. Ralf took the tiniest sip of his, but his body shivered and he shook his head, and I could see he hated it.

>>Here, we'll split it<< I offered, and poured half into my shotglass, and half into Müller's, and from then on, things had got very, very hazy. We wanted to dance, but the floor had grown simply too full to even get near it. Valentina kept insisting that she knew a better, cooler night spot where we would be able to dance, but we needed to get a taxi there. But even I noticed, she kept touching Ralf, and Ralf, quite clearly, was not enjoying that, shrinking back from her, the more she tried to lean into his ear to talk to him.

Hazily, my jumbled memories shifted to a taxi. As we climbed in, Ralf literally grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me in beside him, blocking her from sitting next to him. She laughed, as Müller piled in next to me, but continued to gaze at Ralf as she climbed in beside the driver, saying something like --Why are you being so timid?--

Ralf glared at her, his gaze steely. --I'm married-- he said, quite distinctly, in his German-inflected but otherwise perfect Spanish.

She pointed to her hand, and said something that clearly meant --you don't wear a ring.--

\--My wife and I trust each other-- said Ralf, very pointedly, glancing at me, and suddenly she turned, and glared at me. I don't know what devil made me do it. The back of the seat in front of us blocked her view, so I knew she couldn't see my hands. So surreptitiously, I pulled off a thin, silver band I typically wore on my middle finger, and shifted it onto my ring finger. Ralf saw me do it. For a split second, our eyes locked, and I smiled, raising one eyebrow as I raised that hand to push my hair out of my face, the ring flashing in the dim light of the streetlamps. Valentina stared daggers at me, but Ralf grasped the subterfuge in a moment, and shifted, putting his arm rather awkwardly around me. For a moment, Müller looked like she was about to protest, but I elbowed her, and she remained silent.

Christ, my face burned with shame to remember it. I only intended to make some little wifely gesture, as I snuggled into the crook of Ralf's arm. But both of us were enjoying the ruse a little too much, so I lowered my hand and rested it very gently on the top of his thigh, smiling sideways at him out of the corner of my eye. He was on the verge of blushing, his lips turning up in that shy smile, but what Valentina said next stopped me in my tracks.

\--Well, I suppose some men will *unintelligible* fat whores-- was the obvious gist of what she said. Ralf and I both understood perfectly, but Müller was oblivious. As the driver of the cab pulled up outside the new nightclub, the atmosphere in the cab seemed to thicken, so that the air felt too stifling to breathe. From the queue around the block, the nightclub didn't seem any less busy than the last one, and we had no guest list, so I could see Ralf weighing up the alternatives in his mind.

Slowly, he spoke, first in German, telling Müller >>You two go ahead and go in. Are you OK for money?<<

"Uuuuhhhh..." said Müller, who clearly hadn't thought of this issue.

Ralf dug in his wallet, and pulled out some unseen denomination of Chilean cash. >>You can pay me back in Germany<< he said, putting his arm back around me, in a tone that made he clear he never expected to see the cash again. Then he turned to Valentina and the driver, and said, in his heavily accented Spanish, --My beautiful _wife_ and I will go on to our hotel.--

Valentina had no choice but to leave the cab, but already I could see Müller digging her Kraftwerk: Crew pass out of her back pocket and pulling herself up to approach the bouncers, even as the cab pulled away, heading towards the hotel address Ralf had just given. He did not remove his arm from around my shoulders; I did not remove my hand from his thigh. It was like a game of chicken, where neither of us wanted to flinch first. Neither of us dared to breathe as the cab pulled up outside the hotel, but finally, Ralf had to move to find the cash to pay the driver.

But as he climbed out, he turned and extended his hand to me. "Mrs Hütter?" he said, with a faint smile. I put my nose in the air, took his hand and strode into the hotel, still feeing that "fat whores" comment burning in my ears.

>>God I need a drink<< was all I said, as we stood in the lobby, wondering what to do now.

>>For once, I agree with you. I think I do, too.<< But as we rounded the corner, we saw that the hotel bar was closed. Ralf sighed deeply, then walked over to the reception desk, still holding me by the hand. --Excuse me, but where can we find a drink at this time of night?-- he asked, in his clipped Spanish.

The concierge explained that the hotel bar was closed for the evening, but if we were guests, we could order drinks on room service, and he would arrange for them to be sent up to our room. Ralf immediately asked for a bottle of good German white wine. The concierge made a note, then asked for our room number. Exhausted from his long day, Ralf clearly blanked, but as he dug in his pocket for his room key, I blurted out the number of Müller's and my room. The concierge wrote it down, and wished us a good evening.

But Ralf smiled as we walked to the lifts, still hanging onto my hand. >>Well. I suppose we will have a drink in your room, then. Given Valentina's performance, I don't think Müller will be bringing her back to the hotel, any time soon.<<

>>Just one drink, and then we'll go to bed<< I insisted, as the long day, the alcohol and the jet lag had all swirled everything into that one tiny bad decision.


	24. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ralf and Katrin try to claw their way back from their single drunken lapse, Ralf continually puts his foot in it and makes things worse. Until Katrin decides that what she really needs is a break from him.

When I got out of the shower, I found that Müller had passed out face down on her bed, and was fast asleep, snoring. I dressed quietly, and made my way down to breakfast.

There was a buffet set up in the dining room, but as I walked in, I saw that Ralf had already staked out a table near the door, presumably so he could scan the breakfast crowd for my arrival. Although I had planned in advance to be serious and solemn and professional, as soon as he saw me, his entire face lit up, smiling so earnestly that I could help but smile back, feeling like my emotions must have been flooding all over my face. He looked so beautiful with that little-boy smile I just wanted to put my arms around him, but instead I trooped over to the table and hovered by him.

"You've eaten," I observed, seeing his plate was nearly empty.

"Yes, but go and help yourself. I shall wait for you."

"Do you want anything? A refill of coffee, maybe?" I offered, just wanting to be near him.

He beamed. "You are an angel. Of course I do. The coffee always tastes sweeter when you bring it to me."

I flushed crimson, and fled for the safety of the buffet, grabbing a tray and trying to pile hangover-reducing breakfast food onto a plate. After making a cup of tea, I fixed Ralf's coffee just the way he liked it, and headed back to the table.

"Thank you," he said, as I placed the cup in front of him. I sat opposite him, and for a few minutes, we just sat there, sipping our drinks and staring at one another. Finally, he sighed deeply and looked up at me. "Katrin... I feel..."

"Ralf, please don't," I interrupted, but he waved my objection aside.

"Please allow me to finish. I feel I owe you an apology, for my behaviour this morning."

"You don't," I said softly. "If anyone owes anyone an apology, it's me. I started it. I was out of line. It was highly unprofessional of me. I overstepped every boundary of professionism and propriety. We both had too much to drink last night, and we both just weren't thinking clearly this morning."

Ralf swallowed nervously, and licked his lips, looking down at the table. "I was not drunk at all. I do not have that excuse. I touched you... Well, I did so because I wanted to."

"You wanted to," I repeated so quietly as to be almost inaudible. My heart pounded in my chest, both terrified and exhilarated.

"Yes," said Ralf, lowering his voice to almost as soft as mine, looking up at me slightly shyly from under his long eyelashes. "You see, I have never been to bed with a fat girl before. I wanted to know... well, what it would _feel_ like."

I stared at him, absolutely appalled, my mood swinging from exhilarated to horrified and ashamed and finally furious over the course of a few seconds.

Ralf must have seen the horror in my face, because his eyes suddenly opened extremely large, as if only just realising the rudeness of what he had just said. "Oh no!" he stuttered, flustered. "You are insulted. I did not... oh god. It was not my intention to anger or offend you. I stated it without malice, as a simple fact. I was curious. Curious and..." But here his voice simply gave out.

Rendered almost mute with fury for a few moments, I simply waved my hand as if I could simply wave away my fury and my disappointment and my... well, my heartbreak, if I wanted to be completely honest. For an hour, I had actually allowed myself to believe that someone could want me, could desire me physically. Had we been alone, I might have shouted, might have actually slapped him, but in this buzzing dining hall, surrounded by people, I didn't dare to raise my voice. Well, it was my fault for insisting we meet in public. But maybe I had saved myself more humiliation. If we had been alone, I might have been tempted to act on that thwarted desire before being cruelly dashed by the truth. Instead, I fixed him with a cold, bitter glare. "Well. What did your curiosity discover," a nasty, bitter barbed question. I might as well make my humiliation complete.

His face went through several rapid changes. First, he looked embarrassed by the question, but as he seemed to seriously consider it, a bashful smile replaced it, then finally the strange expression of a man who had discovered a pleasure of which he had not thought himself capable. "It felt nice," he finally confessed, in a voice so low I had to strain to catch it. "Firm, and yet slightly yielding. Soft. Feminine.  My curiosity was satisfied, but my, erm..." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "My lust was whetted. I _liked_ it."

For several minutes, there was complete silence between us, as if neither of us dared to breathe. My brain just went into a total freeze, unable to even process what he had just said.

"I'm sorry," he finally offered, his gaze downcast. "I should not have said anything at all. It was unprofessional of me to do... but now I realise it was even more unprofessional to explain. But I did not want you to go away insulted. I wanted you to know the truth of it. That is my whole confession. I enjoyed touching you. Deeply. I like the way your body _feels_."

"But what am I supposed to do with this?" I asked, my voice tight. "You're married."

"I am married," he agreed. "I love my family. I will never leave them."

My head felt like it was spinning, or maybe that was just the hangover. It seemed so strange to me, that he had said 'I love my _family_ ', rather than 'I love my wife.' I swallowed nervously, then picked up my tea to wet my suddenly dry and clammy throat. "Ralf," I said softly, rolling my tongue around his name in the German way. I had started to love saying his name aloud. "We can't do this. I..." A hundred things to say crowded my brain, but none of them fit. He had just confessed that he desired me, hadn't he. Well, not exactly. He said he _enjoyed_ it. I swallowed another sip of tea, then looked up at him, at his beautiful blue eyes, squinted against the sunlight, then blurted out. "I just don't want to ruin things between you and I..."

"No, no no." Reaching forward, Ralf placed his hand gently on top of mine and looked up into my eyes. "Nothing has been ruined." Really, I knew I should have pushed his hand off mine, but his skin felt so good against mine I just wanted it to stay there forever. "We have grown close over this past week, and I really treasure that."

"That is what I don't want to ruin."

He nodded slowly. "I agree. It is a beautiful... Well. Perhaps too... no. I..." His voice sputtered to a stop before he lurched into something even more uncomfortable.

"No, what," I prodded, afraid of any more of these confessions, but I needed to know. "What were you going to say?"

"I was going to say we had grown too close, but I don't think that we have. Our closeness doesn't feel... well, this morning was an error. A breach. An overstepping. But our closeness itself, it doesn't feel _wrong_. I've grown very attached to you. I have shared everything with you. I trust you. Perhaps it's natural, that out of this closeness, I should grow to have feelings for you."

At that, a prickle went down the back of my neck. I knew this was something I had to deny, to cut off at the root. It couldn't go anywhere. He had just said so himself. I really should not be pushing at it. He was my boss. And I had a book to write. An hour ago, lying in bed with him, this had seemed almost possible, But now I knew it absolutely could not. Slowly, I pulled my hand out from under his, but he did not raise a fuss, and just let it go. "Ralf, don't..."

"Katrin, no. You misunderstand me again. I'm not... no, well. Look, it's not what you are thinking. I am hardly the sort of man who is going to start his Second Spring by sleeping with his secretary."

I pulled back, glaring at him, feeling all my complicated fuzzy feelings suddenly snap and break under a cold, harsh wind. It wasn't that he had said he wasn't going to sleep with me. I had never even dreamed that Ralf might want to sleep with me; the very idea seemed absurd. It was this dismissal of my entire role, as that of 'secretary'.

But he plunged on regardless. "But I do have feelings for you. Feelings of closeness, perhaps even of intimacy. At this point, you know more about me than my own family do. And I thought that... well, at first, those were the kinds of feelings I had for you. Paternal feelings. You reminded me a bit of my daughter - you have the same name."

There, now he had said it, it just struck me as even more creepy. "We do?" I asked, in a completely disingenuous tone. "Your daughter's name is Kate?"

"My daughter's name is Katrin," explained Ralf. "It's an old family name. It was my grandmother's name."

"My name is Kate," I insisted. "No one calls me Katrin, but you. You don't think that's a little... creepy?"

Ralf looked slightly confused by this, his smile shaken. "No. You said your mother called you Katrin. It is a term of affection, that is all." He paused, gently swirling his cup of coffee. "Does it bother you?"

It actually seemed a good sign, that he asked, but my feelings were too complicated to untangle just then. It was true, I had rather liked having this playful pet name that Ralf used. He was right; it had felt like a very intimate gesture of affection. I decided to avoid the question, but asking one of my own. "Are you saying your feelings for me have changed? How?"

Ralf looked at me with a very odd expression, a mixture of tenderness and slight embarrassment, chewing gently on his lip before finally just rubbing his face, as if realising he couldn't actually answer it. I ate in silence, finishing my pile of scrambled eggs.

"Listen," he said, at last. "I don't want anything to change between us. I want to keep things the way they are. I like things the way they are. We are agreed, then. This morning was a mistake. We will not allow ourselves to be carried away by animal instinct like that again."

I looked at him, feeling so many conflicting emotions rolling around in my gut. To be honest, I was still smarting from the 'secretary' comment. I didn't want him to see me just as his secretary, typing down his dictation. I wanted him to see me as a writer, as a fellow artist. Even if he never saw me as quite as talented as himself, I still wanted the acknowledgement that what I was doing _was_ a creative thing. And on top of that, honestly, I still felt ever so slightly weirded out by his confession about his daughter's name. True, I had already known for several weeks now. But it felt so strange to have it out in the open, to know he was calling me by his daughter's name when he held my hand and petted me. But running below all that, like groundwater that would not be denied, and kept seeping up through the floorboards, I realised that my crush... if crush was even the right word for this complex mix of yearning emotions... was carrying on completely unabated. If we just carried on, as we had been doing, I would fall in love.

I should have stepped back. I should have told him that I needed a break, needed time by myself to work through my feelings, and get over them. But instead, I leaned forward, and I smiled back at him. "Yes," I said. "We are agreed. We will leave things as they are."

We all checked out of the hotel at noon, though we were more than slightly subdued in the small bus over to the airport. The gear had been picked up by the delivery company at the venue the previous night, so the crew were riding with us. Everyone seemed very hungover, and no one particularly wanted to talk. Ralf and I sat together, though he was in an odd mood, digging through his bag and fussing over things. But we had got to the point where we no longer needed to speak. I held whatever he needed, sorted through things and picked out whatever I knew he was fussing over - passport, boarding pass or sunglasses - without even being asked. That was the irony; we made a good team. I had grown to know him so well that I anticipated his needs before he voiced them.

The group separated at check-in. To me, it was still very odd, the way that Ralf went off ahead, and breezed through into the First Class section, leaving the rest of the band with the crew to queue for luggage check-in. I was still not used to going first class, constantly feeling like I had to be slightly apologetic and deferential to all of the staff that fussed over us in the waiting lounge. Ralf plugged in his iPad and wanted to check his emails, so I left him watching my bag as I went off to Duty Free to buy a bottle of something as a present for Karlheinz. I bought a bar of chocolate, then stopped and picked up a coffee for Ralf. His smile, when he saw me returning was heartwarming, and I actually believed it was not just on account of the coffee, and the chocolate bar we shared.

As usual, we were ahead of time, and were the first people to board the plane. He staked out his aisle seat, as I made myself comfortable, a bit sad that we would be flying into the night-time, so that I wouldn't get a chance to see more of the fantastic scenery below. Slowly, the plane filled up, and eventually we were ready to go, but Ralf seemed distracted, nervous.

"I hate flying," he responded when I asked him if there was anything I could do, as the plane approached the runway, and his tension seemed to ratchet up.

"I know you do. What can I do about it?" I said in a lightly teasing tone. "Do you want me to hold your hand?"

Although I had been joking, he turned to me, allowing the front of disgruntlement to drop long enough for me to see the very real fear in his eyes. Very tentatively, he snaked his hand across the armrest, and my heart melted. I took his hand in mine, and started to trace little circles on his knuckles. As the plane stopped, eerily quiet, then began its long, terrifyingly fast acceleration, pushing us back into our seats, he pulled my hand into his lap, squeezing it very tightly as he held it against his thigh. The plane started to lift. My stomach dropped, my ears popped. For five, ten minutes, we climbed with dizzying speed, then finally we evened out, as the plane stopped shaking.

When the lights popped back to normal, and the cabin announcement came on, announcing that the flight attendants would be round with drinks shortly, he finally released my hand and turned to look at me sheepishly. "You are too good to me."

I couldn't reply. I just looked at him, his ruffled hair, his boyish smile, his freckled skin, and just thought 'I am already in love with you.' It had to be shining all over my face, but he said nothing, and ordered a glass of white wine for me when the cabin crew came round.

Thankfully, I slept on the plane, too exhausted to do anything else. If I dreamed, I did not remember it, and woke up too groggy to think on the subject more. When we landed, we decided to split up into three taxis, one going West to Krefeld, one going North to Düsseldorf and one going down to Köln. Ralf had given the whole team that Monday off to recover from jet lag, and I was very relieved to be dropped at the bottom of the Rheinkniebrücke, to drag my suitcase back up the Berger Allee and to bed.

 

 

I got home to find a series of increasingly panicked emails from my mother, wanting to know about Christmas. Oh, of course! I had almost forgotten that she was coming to visit, and expected me to be back in London for the last two weeks of December. Rather sheepishly, I wrote to my subletter, and asked if she would be in the flat over Christmas break. Fortunately, she was going back up North to see her own family, and I offered her a break of two weeks off the rent if I could stay at the flat until the first week of January, which she gratefully accepted. I booked my train, and then wondered how on earth I was going to broach this to Ralf. I knew this was going to be a case of telling him, rather than asking him. He would want to make it into a negotiation, insist that he couldn't do without me, try to bargain back some part of my visit off me. But if I booked it, and presented it to him fait accompli, as something that had been arranged for months, then he would have to accept it.

On the next morning, on my cycle ride in to work, I decided that it would actually best to raise it with Gudrun, first. After all, she was the office manager, and was officially in charge of HR and that sort of thing. So I locked up my bike, and headed in to see her, asking if she had a moment, then explaining the situation, that this visit had been booked since before I had even accepted the job at Klingklang.

Gudrun looked at me very carefully. >>Has Ralf authorised this?<<

>>Ralf doesn't know... yet. I did actually forget to mention it to him when I was hired. Honestly... because I forget, in all the excitement. But my Mum lives in the States, I see her maybe once every five years, and this has been planned since the summer...<< I wheedled.

Gudrun sighed deeply, before opening up a spreadsheet on her computer and marking out the time. >>Technically, you're not legally allowed holiday until you have completed at least three months with us, but since I am a mother, too, I will make an exception. We will allow the time off.<<

I breathed a sigh of relief. >>Thank you, Gudrun. I knew you would understand.<<

She turned back to me and looked at me with a penetrating stare. >>Ralf is not going to like this, you know.<<

Wriggling under her gaze, I wondered how much she knew, or had guessed. I tried to think of something to say, but decided on the truth. >>To be honest, I actually kind of need a... _break_ from Ralf. << She said nothing, just continuing to gaze at me with that very intense expression. >>Some time apart would be good for both of us. Our work has been very intense and... well. He is very intense.<<

Gudrun's stare became almost too much to bear. I knew what she wanted to know, and just couldn't stand to confess the awful, chaste truth. The way she looked at me, even I could tell, she wanted to know if I was sleeping with Ralf. I wasn't; that much was true. But I somehow couldn't acknowledge that without confessing how much I _wanted_ to. But finally she relented.  >>Yes, he can be. Don't worry. I will speak to him when he comes in. I will let him know that I have authorised your trip, and it is already decided.<<

>>Thank you so much.<< I fled, rather than face any more of that gaze.

I made myself a cup of tea, then went in my office and tried to compose my thoughts. I plugged in my computer, and made a space on my desk. Really, I needed to fetch one of his diaries to get back to work on the chapter I had been drafting in South America, but Ralf didn't let those out of his office. For about an hour and a half, I waited on tenterhooks.

But finally, he appeared in my door, pulling up a chair and sitting down as close as the tiny room would allow. We never sat in my room, only ever in his, and his small body seemed to make it almost unbearably full. "So," he said. "Gudrun tells me you are leaving us."

"Only for three weeks," I assured him a little too brightly.

"Three weeks!" he protested. "This is an eternity. This is intolerable. How am I supposed to do without you for three weeks. The book... the book is at a very sensitive stage. How is the book supposed to get finished, if you disappear for three weeks... _now_ , of all times."

I looked at him very carefully, and lowered my voice. "It's Christmas. We won't be working much, anyway."

"We are always working. 168 hours a week, 52 weeks a year. I need you here. I need you working on this thing, with me. I can't just let you walk out, and leave me alone, for three whole weeks, when... when... just when I need you most." He voice tailed off as he seemed to realise how ridiculous he was sounding, and he stopped, and looked up at me helplessly.

My voice was almost a whisper. "Are you sure you are talking about the book?"

Slowly, he shook his head, bit his lip nervously, then said in a small voice. "I need you. I need you here. With me."

"Ralf, it's Christmas," I urged. "Shouldn't you be with your own family?"

He pulled a slightly sour face. "My daughter has been invited to go away, skiing, with the family of one of her schoolfriends. She will be at their Chalet in Switzerland for two weeks, over Christmas."

"What you should do," I said, feeling my voice wavering. "Is go away with your wife. Book a romantic cruise. Go on a second honeymoon somewhere warm. Slow boat to Jamaica. The Maldives. The Seychelles. You, and your wife, and maybe some suntan lotion."

He sighed deeply. "Do you really think so? I should just go with my wife?"

"Yes." I could not meet his eyes, staring instead at the screen of my computer. "Rekindle your passion for your wife."

"Perhaps you are right," he finally conceded. "If I ever get her away for a moment from the Benevolent Ladies' and their Christmas Fundraising plans, I shall suggest it."

It was arranged, over the next week. Ralf suggested a holiday to his wife, and to his surprise, she leapt on it. She booked them on a two-week 'dinner and dancing' cruise to the Seychelles. The idea of Ralf on a cruise filled me with amusement, but also with relief. On a cruise ship, there would be no mobile phone reception. The endless texts from Ralf would stop. But he seemed pleased with his plans. I started to relax around him. We slid back into an easy intimacy. Even the stream of texts when I was not in the office stopped bothering me.

In fact, in a funny way, I started to like them, to look forward to them, stroking my phone like a pet to see if any more had come in. How completely my reaction to his name in my inbox had changed, going completely 360 degrees, from awe to annoyance to acceptance to enjoyment. Silence in my inbox filled me with dread, with doubt, with the fear that I might have gone too far. And then the soft shoop of a message coming in, and the grey bubble of his text, his words, no matter how trivial, worked a kind of charm, a reminder of his affection towards me. And then I would wait, spacing out the time so as not to seem too eager, waiting two minutes, five minutes, maybe even ten minutes if I was composing a longer reply, imagining Ralf in his own office, hitting refresh on his phone, until the soft buzz of his text message alert, and that relieved smile graced his own face.

Müller had described it to me, with both fascination and curiosity. I think she knew that something was up, and she was not satisfied with my direct denials since catching him in our room with me. >>He jumps when he hears his phone buzz, you know<< she told me during a vaping break on the balcony. >>He never used to be like this. He used to view his phone as an inconvenience, an interruption. But now he is like a schoolgirl. He jumps on it the moment it buzzes. You can see the disappointment in his face, if it's not the message he's expecting, how he kind of slumps and puts his phone back in his pocket. But if it is the message he wants, he is a greedy as a child. He hunches over his phone and takes it away, stroking it like a pet, devouring it like a treat.<<

>>It is probably messages from his wife. Or his daughter. You know how fond he is of his family<< I said, shutting down the line of interrogation before it could begin.

>>I don't know<< replied Müller slightly suspiciously. >>OK, he's always been secretive, Hütter has. But this is new.<<

>>What are you insinuating?<< I asked, going on the attack a little. >>Do you think the Boss is doing something untoward? Come on... Hütter?<<

>>It's not just me that's noticed it. Fritz said he acts so secretive with his phone, he acts like he's having an affair with it.<<

I swallowed nervously and tried not to let my guilt shine on my face. >>An affair? In a place this small, this incestuous? We would all know in a minute, if any of us had so much as a date.<<

Müller smiled at that, conceding that it was perfectly true. We both knew the way that Fritz and Rudi teased her about her own conquests; but, to be fair, she had made rather a big deal out of the fact that Graciella, one of the girls she had met in Mexico City, had started to email her regularly, sometimes including rather saucy photos. 

But then her eyes lit up as she changed the subject doggedly back from her own social life to Ralf's. >>I could hack his phone. Then we would find out, who the delectable messages are from.<<

I swallowed nervously, suddenly realising that she might even have the technical skills to do so. But would Müller actually do such a thing? She was naughty, yes, but she did have a sense of morality towards her friends. >>And what would that prove?<< I asked, as calmly as I could. >>I mean, he sends me a lot of messages. About the book, and things. That doesn't mean we're having an affair.<<

Müller turned and looked me over very carefully. Apparently, this was what she had been waiting for. >>Well, are you? You got very close on tour.<<

>>Honestly<< I snorted. >>I'm his _secretary_. Does Ralf strike you as the boring, conventional kind of salaryman who would have an affair with his secretary? << It worried me, how easily Ralf's awful words slipped from my lips.

After a split second's pause, Müller actually laughed aloud. >>No, you're right. I'm sorry, I shouldn't tease you like this.<< But then she moved closer, lowering her voice. >>But you already know. This place is very small, and very tight-knit. People have noticed, how much time you spent together on tour. Gudrun knows you spent a night in his room; your laundry showed up on his bill.<<

>>Thank you for the warning<< I said in a tight voice. >>But I am not a fool. We are just friends. The laundry was from the night I was avoiding _your_ conquests. I mean, listen to you! What has happened to you? Talking about hacking your boss's phone? What if Ralf heard you talking like that? <<

>>I was just kidding<< Müller replied a little sulkily. >>You know, just winding you up. To be honest, I couldn't, even if I wanted to. The text messages on those old-fashioned feature-phones are practically unhackable. I mean, I installed the security features on his iPad - I could crack that in about thirty seconds flat. But those old phones, man... forget it.<<


	25. Family Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After another close call between Ralf and Katrin, both of them withdraw to their respective families in order to try to shake off the improper attachment between them.

Just friends. Oh god, the subterfuge involved in that term. It was true; we never had sex. But I honestly did not know if the level of intimacy that we had fallen into was still within the constraints of mere 'friendship'. Ralf and I had fallen into a good rhythm. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, I would go into Klingklang, to continue the interview process with him. Usually, we would sit at either end fn the sofa, him curled tightly with his legs crossed into a neat, angular package, while I sprawled at the other end, my shoes off and my feet up on the coffee table, trying to get comfortable. We were careful not to let our bodies touch; there was always at least an inch or two between our limbs, even as we leaned towards one another. He always acted like he was leaning towards the tape recorder. But I knew he hated the tape recorder; he was leaning towards me.

We were affectionate with one another, sometimes even physically, comradely pats on the shoulders, light taps on the arms, often just touching one another's hands to attract the other's attention. He continued to place his hand on the small of my back to guide me through doors, or steer me into a room, but his fingers never went any lower, though honestly, sometimes I did catch him staring at the curved parts of my body, not in a lascivious way, but more in a careful, thoughtful, curious sort of way. But we remained chaste. The mood between us was actually very playful, lighthearted and affectionate. My crush burbled along, but it felt delightfully free of angst. I simply enjoyed being in his company. I _liked_ being locked away in his office, working, me on the sofa, and him at his desk, even when we were both buried in our screens.

Saturdays, I usually met up with Müller in the early evening. We would go out for a meal and a good gossip, usually about her tangled lovelife. Graciella had graduated from saucy photos to intensely erotic Skype sessions. Müller recounted breathlessly how the young woman would answer the call wearing nothing but a push-up bra and suspenders with stockings, then slowly drive her insane with her long-distance strip-tease. I would listen to Müller's howls of frustration, then she would take me to one of her hang-outs, cool bars in unfamiliar parts of Düsseldorf I never would have found on my own. I guess touring had cemented our friendship; she trusted me enough to let me into her social life, and introduce me to her friends.

>>Don't even try it with her<< she would tease, when introducing me to some lovely, lean, slightly androgynous girl. >>She says she's bi, but we all know she's too good for the likes of us.<<

>>Shut up<< I would laugh, and playfully punch her leather-clad arm. I tried flirting with her friends. I even enjoyed a heavy make-out session with one of her mates on a dare and two shots of tequila. It actually felt really good, just to have a breathy, moist snog, channelling all over my frustrations through my tongue into a willing mouth, hands grasping hair, brushing over clothes and accidentally touching skin in tiny thrills. But before the night could go much further than groping, I made my excuses and left without acting any further on those animal impulses. It wasn't fair; I knew my heart was occupied elsewhere.

Sundays, we all went cycling. I was finally in good enough shape to join team Radsportgruppe Klingklang on some of their cross-country jaunts. The first weekend, we were Ralf-less, which Müller told me was fairly normal. But the second weekend, although I didn't tell Ralf I was going, news must have percolated through the studio, because he turned up. Sure, I was pleased to see him, but he had an odd effect on the company. The previous weekend, it had all seemed very relaxed. But Ralf was so competitive, he automatically seemed to turn the whole thing into a race. Staying near the back of the group, I kept to my own pace, while he and Müller and Rudi raced ahead, jostling for pole position. But, to be fair, Ralf did treat everyone to a restorative hot Glüwein at the end of the route.

When we got back to the starting point, he offered me a ride home in his car as the group dispersed.

>>I can cycle<< I laughed, though to be honest, my legs did feel a little wobbly after cycling at speed for so long.

>>You are tired. Let me drive you<< he insisted, picking up my bike and placing it on the cycle rack beside his own. I sighed, but climbed into his car without a fight. We were both tired, so we didn't talk much. I fiddled with the radio, until I found a station I knew he would like. The soft music filled the car, but did not interfere with the silence between us, which felt warm, comforting. As he smiled at me, I felt like we knew each other so well we didn't feel the need to speak.

When we pulled into the side street by my apartment, I asked him almost out of habit if he wanted to come up for a cup of coffee. But to my surprise, he agreed. I glanced nervously up at the house, but the lights were off. My landlord was out. Ralf helped me stow my bike in the basement, then followed me up the stairs, telling me about how the neighbourhood had changed. He liked the pedestrianised Rhine terrace, thought it a great improvement on the traffic noise which had marred his enjoyment of his own flat during the early 70s.

I slipped off my shoes and unlocked the front door as Ralf sat and unlaced his cycling boots, then padded through into the kitchen without turning on any of the overhead lights. Tossing my keys onto the table, I shed my bomber jacket onto one of the chairs. After putting on the kettle, I fished two cups and my new cafetiere from the cupboard to make fresh coffee, then thought it was such a beautiful night it might be nice to sit on the balcony, despite the cold. So I walked on into my bedroom to get some chairs.

But when I turned, I saw that Ralf had followed me through, and was looking about my bedroom with distinct interest. His eyes took in my clotheshorse, covered with freshly laundered garments for the week ahead, my desk, scattered with books and papers, and my bed, unmade as usual.

A short, breathy laugh as he walked over to it. >>How funny. You use these narrow, English style pillows<< he observed, and then picked one up. That, I knew, was not clean, as I had been pressed for time the previous afternoon, and the bedclothes had not fit in my usual wash. But he picked it up and raised it to his face, then, to my great surprise, he thrust forward his nose and sniffed at it. I felt a shudder pass through me, as shock turned to embarrassment, as he seemed to forget where he was and what he was doing. He must have caught the smell of my unwashed body that clung to my sheets, pushing his face forward and closing his eyes as he inhaled very deeply, clutching the pillow to his chest as if it were a lover.

For a moment, I stood, frozen, wondering if I were reading this correctly. Ralf, in my bedroom, embracing my pillow, inhaling my scent as if it were a drug. The hair prickled on the back of my neck. This was wrong, this was very, very wrong, and yet every inch of my skin felt alive, terribly alert, even despite the exhaustion of the long cycle ride. Gently, I took hold of the end of the pillow, and pulled it away from him slowly. "Ralf..." I said, catching his attention.

The way he looked at me almost scared me. There it was, the expression of actual _desire_ on his face, utterly unlike the soppy way he looked at Gudrun, or the foolish way he had looked at that Argentinean journalist. He looked at me like he looked at his synthesiser when he was absolutely lost in playing; like wanted to utterly annihilate me. HIs eyes left mine, and slipped down to my lips, moistening his own, then chewing on them nervously, as if he were physically holding himself back from biting me. And I realised abruptly where we were, what this looked like. I had invited him up to my flat. My landlord was out; we were alone in my bedroom. The unmade bed lay there like the mouth of a grave. Every molecule of air between us seemed charged, magnetised, though whether it was pulling us together or pushing us apart was hard to tell.

He stepped towards me, put his hands on my upper arms as I just dropped the pillow. I could feel his hands through my shirt, and the faint pressure of his heavy leather jacket against my arms. In stocking feet, he was almost exactly the same height as me, and he gazed evenly into my eyes for what felt like an eternity. Could we do this? Could we just fall into bed and start copulating? If he asked, I knew I couldn't say no; if he led with his body, I knew I would follow. My brain reeled. What time was it? When did my landlord usually get back on Sunday evenings? Did we have the time to do this? Would it be quick, and frenzied and over in a minute, soaked with passion; or would we be the kind of lovers who took hours to exercise their desires?

His gaze went to my lips again, and this time I could see his head start to bend forward, and I actually believed that he was going to lean towards me and kiss me.

But at that moment, something snapped in the other room. I shot away from him, terror flooding my face, thinking we would be discovered in this clinch, until I realised from the low hiss of steam that it was just the kettle boiling over.

But Ralf shook his head, as if waking from a trance, and stepped back from me, tripping a little over my slippers on the floor. He could obviously see the horror on my face, and it clearly hurt him, as his face flushed with embarrassment, and then fear. "Entschuldigung" he blurted out, then switched to English. "I am so sorry. I should... I should go." He turned on his heel and fled.

I felt too emotional to follow him, to call after him, to chase him back. My own impulses terrified me. I would have done it. I would have fucked him. I would have thrown everything away, and pulled him down onto my bed, pulled him over on top of me, and fucked him. Just friends? This was not how _friends_ behaved.

 

I cycled towards Klingklang with a heavy heart the next morning. There had been no texts from Ralf overnight, to both my relief and my sorrow. How on earth were we going to talk ourselves out of this one? It had been a close escape; too close to deny what was still, clearly flowing between us.

But to my surprise, he dealt with it by completely ignoring it, as if pretending it had never happened at all. Gudrun told me there would be an all-staff meeting first thing that morning, in the kitchen. People would be leaving on their Christmas holidays over the coming week, so they wanted to have a quick catch-up. Everyone sat round the table and ate pastries as Ralf and Günter talked through the accomplishments of the past year, and the plans for 2017, tours, festivals, that kind of thing. Müller made her usual wisecracks and Ralf glared her down with his paternal gaze, and we all acted as if everything was completely normal. There were a few questions, answers, comments, a smattering of applause and seasonal cheer as Ralf said that there would be a Christmas bonus in the pay packets that month, so not to spend it all in one place.

Then he shrugged and said >>Katrin, you are with me. I think we were talking about the 1981 Australian tour, when we left off<< and that was it. We went upstairs and got on with our interviews as if he had never even _been_ in my bedroom.

I did my best to damp down the crush. After all, it was only a week until I left for England. I thought three weeks without Ralf would put some kind of stop to it. But until then, I stopped flirting. Well. I stopped those sparky little arguments and teasing and contradicting him playfully just to see the light flash in his eyes until he realised I was playing. It hurt me to do so, as I soon realised that Ralf missed it. I would catch him looking up at me expectantly after saying something slightly provocative, as if hoping for me to catch him on it, and tease him over it, but I did my best not to react. So instead, I tried to overcompensate with kindness. I was just _nice_ to Ralf. Instead of teasing or poking or prodding him, I tried my best to be sweet, and kind, and helpful. That confused him, but it didn't stop the longing little looks. He seemed to _want_ to play.

On my last day before I left for England, I brought little gifts for everyone; chocolate and marzipan animals that had started to appear in all the bakeries around Carlsplatz. As I saw my colleagues - Rudi, Robbo, Fritz, Günter, Henning, even Stef, and yes, especially Falk - dropping in and out of the studio, I made sure to parcel them out, provoking much cheer.

Müller was actually leaving on holiday the day after I was. To everyone's astonishment, she was flying back for a week in Mexico City. There were hugs and hearty, back-slapping handshakes with everyone, as I realised that over the past few months, I had actually started to _belong_ in this place, with these people.

But Ralf caught me alone, as I was packing up things from my office. I was leaving my work laptop, as I had decided in advance to leave the book alone for a few weeks, but I was taking my Klingklang smartphone. He slouched in the door to my office for a few minutes, just watching me putting things away before he spoke. "Katrin. Do I not get a goodbye?"

I sort of shrugged vaguely and walked to meet him in the centre of the tiny room, handing him the last of the marzipan animals, a tiny pig. "It's not goodbye, it's only au revoir," I said softly, looking him over. HIs cheeks were red, as if he'd just been outside, and his eyes seemed very twinkly.

"Three weeks without you," he said, sounding bereft, holding the piece of candy on his palm like it was alive.

"You'll manage," I told him, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket, to remove a piece of fluff that had caught on it. "You are, after all, going on a luxury cruise with your lovely wife."

"I am," he said, as if reminding himself of the fact. "The Benevolent Ladies of Krefeld have allowed my wife to have two whole weeks off, to spend with me."

"I do hope you have a wonderful time," I said, looking deeply into his eyes. >>Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. To you and your family.<<

He laughed aloud. "Your accent is still extraordinary. To you, as well." He picked up the marzipan pig, and placed it on his tongue, and something twisted inside me to see his teeth, his lips, all glistening with saliva before he closed his mouth, letting the sweet dissolve on his tongue. But then he smiled, and reached out to touch the side of my face. >>It is as sweet as you are.<<

He bent forward to brush his sugared lips against the side of my face, not even a sexual gesture, but merely an affectionate one, and we parted as friends.

 

\----------

 

I was wretched by the time I arrived back in London. The Eurostar had been nearly an hour late, and there were staffing problems that meant the cafe never opened so I couldn't get a decent cup of tea. There were rumours of strikes, and the immigration at the border took forever, as if French staff were venting their Brexit frustrations on English tourists. To make my misery complete, when I arrived, the Thameslink was not running. An RMT strike had brought all overground trains to a standstill. There was an enormous queue for the bus, and I ended up having to stand until Brixton, unable to go upstairs because of my heavy bag.

Fortunately, my lodger had left the flat in a decent enough state, changing the sheets and even leaving half a pint of milk for my tea and a box of eclairs with a note saying 'eat me'. To my joy, she had left her own cycle chained up outside, with two small keys in an envelope, saying I was welcome to take it out if I wanted. That pleased me greatly. I had been worried that I would lose my now-formidable cycling stamina while in London, but now I could test my endurance against Brixton Hill.

But still, my flat felt odd. It smelled wrong, though really it was only my lodger's somewhat less avoidant attitude towards cleaning that made it smell vaguely of pine, instead of its usual aura of must with a faint aftertaste of damp. Although none of the furniture had changed, I had taken down most of the posters, and it was strange to see different artwork on the walls. My bed was clean, but I had replaced the mattress before my lodger moved in, and after several months in Germany, it felt too hard. The piles of clothes all over the floor, all over the end of the bed, obviously were gone. My lodger had tidied all of her things into a tall Ikea cupboard. So although it was obviously still my flat, it somehow no longer felt like my home. 

I got up early the next day to take the train out to meet my Mum at Heathrow, and there was a very tearful reunion. I tried not to act as sullen and bruised as I felt inside, but in the taxi back from Paddington, my Mum asked me what was wrong. Was I happy in Germany; had something happened? I looked good, clearly I had lost weight, but she was my mother, and she could tell that something was not right. I tried to put her off, but I felt so bruised inside, I felt on the verge of snapping when she started to interrogate me about my job.

"My job is fine!" I insisted, and tried to change the subject.

"Are you happy in Düsseldorf? Do you miss London, have you made friends?"

"Yes, I love Germany. I've made friends through work. It's fine."

My Mum looked at me with a penetrating expression. "Is it a man?"

I almost burst into tears. "Please don't ask me about it. It _can't_ happen. It's someone at work. He is my actual boss, so it absolutely, positively, cannot happen. I know that. But it does not stop me from having feelings."

"Does he have feelings for you?" my Mum probed.

"He says he does. But he is also very aware that we cannot act on them," I sighed.

"Oh, Katrina," my Mum sighed, reaching out her hand and stroking my hair. And at that pet name, I just burst into tears.

But what I had needed was my Mum. She asked if I wanted to talk about him, but I said no. Talking about him was the last thing I needed; I needed to forget him. So she took care of me, and talked to me, distracting me with other things, until I started to forget that man, and the vast emotional hold he seemed to have had over me. We went shopping during the day, or haunted art galleries. In the evenings, we lounged on my sofa watching box sets of DVDs. We soon lost ourselves in the throb and hum of London over Christmas, and I was relieved to take comfort in my own family.

It was four days before the Texts From Ralf resumed. The first was innocent, it was just a greeting on Christmas Eve, wishing me happy holidays saying he hoped I was having a lovely time with my Mum. He was leaving for his cruise on Boxing Day, so he wanted to make sure he caught me before he left. I texted back, saying we were having a great time, and wished him and his family joy. He responded saying thank you, and I left it at that.

My Mum and I made the best of it, with our reduced Christmas. She was on a very restricted diet for her gout, but so we did what we could. We roasted a big meal of permitted vegetables and made sticky toffee pudding for afters, then sat down in my flat to watch movies on DVD while waiting for London and its public transport to wake up again. 

I started to get back into Tumblr again. Honestly, I only logged on because I was looking for a picture of Düsseldorf to show my Mum, but I soon found myself restarting an abandoned 'art blogge' just because it was so addictive to fiddle with during long down-times. While my Mum watched George Gently and Agatha Christie, I lovingly poured through Art Deco and Art Nouveau blogs and stuffed my queue with beautiful things.

By Boxing Day, bored by two days sitting in front of the telly (it had been raining constantly so I was denied even the pleasure of a walk on the Common) I started to feel restless again. After playing with Tumblr for a bit on my Galaxy phone, I found myself digging back through my text messages, and read the Christmas greeting from Ralf. Surely it couldn't hurt to wish him Bon Voyage? I debated it for about twenty minutes before composing a brief greeting wishing him a good trip, then sent it. My Mum wanted to walk down to Sainsbury's to buy tangerines, of which we'd run out, so I left my phone on the table and went out.

When we came back, laden with not just tangerines, but discount Yule Log and brandy-rich mince pies and a number of other delicious things that were not Gout-friendly but too good a bargain to pass up in the sales, there were two messages on my phone, both of them, of course, from Ralf. One thanked me for the well wishes, but said they would not be flying to the Mediterranean until the evening. The second, when I had not responded, asked me how my Christmas had been. The itch had been restarted, as I sat, fiddling with my phone as my Mum laughed herself sick watching old episodes of Black Books, filling Ralf in on the goings on in London. It was mundane stuff, what we had eaten, gifts we had given and received. But those glowing bubbles of text just seemed like some kind of link between us.

When I put the phone down for a moment, my Mum picked it up. Of course she couldn't open it, as it was locked to my passcode, but she would not give it back. "What is so interesting, on this thing?" she wanted to know.

"I'm just texting," I said defensively.

"With your boss?" she asked. I said nothing, trying to grab back my phone, but she held it out of reach. "That is not a 'texting the boss on business' face. There is far too much smiling and giggling to yourself for that."

"We're just chatting," I protested. "Please give me my phone back."

"You can talk to him any time. You have me for two weeks of the year, now please pay attention to me?"

I pouted as I stared at the phone. "Can I just text him back and tell him where I've gone, so he doesn't think I'm blanking him?"

"One text," she said.

I wrote back, saying I had to go, that my Mum wanted my attention, but that I hoped he had a good cruise. He wrote back saying that my Mum was probably right, and he wouldn't keep me, but he had enjoyed talking to me. My Mum confiscated the phone before I could reply to that one.

That evening, after my Mum had gone back to her hotel to sleep, my phone buzzed again. It couldn't be Ralf, as I knew he would be on his cruise by then, but the only other person who had the phone number was Müller, who was in Mexico City. Intrigued, I padded across the flat to pick it up. An unrecognised number, but an all too familiar tone.

"Katrin! There is Wi-Fi, with an onboard SMS messaging service. Please text me back if you can receive this?"

"Ralf, you are supposed to be concentrating on the cruise, and on spending time with your wife, not messaging me?"

"I just wanted to know if it worked. Thank you for the reply. Tschüss! Your Ralfi"

Over the next few days, a disaster unfolded in slow motion at sea, as I gadded about London with my Mum during the day, and spent the nights filling my Tumblr queue and fielding texts from Ralf.

The first full day, the weather had been rough, and the sea choppy, so the planned activities had been scrapped. Ralf was badly affected by seasickness and almost confined to bed, though Jutta was unaffected, and went off to dinner to meet the other guests, so Ralf was bored and lonely, pitching and rolling in their bedroom by himself.

The second day, the weather was better, but things started to get very grim. They were entering a busy shipping lane which was used heavily by illegal boats bringing refugees across the Mediterranean. Jutta, who had spent the best part of the previous three months trying to raise money for the cause, was affected very deeply when their ship nearly collided with an overfilled and understaffed ship full of terrified looking families. Her party mood was completely gone, and there was little Ralf could do to rouse her spirits, especially as he had been confronted for the first time with the scale of the problem, and now felt guilty for trying to tempt her away from her cause.

By the third day, they were through the Suez Canal and into smoother sailing. At last, Ralf was able to join his wife the rest of the guests for this fabled dance in the evening. Ralf, it was clear, had been looking forward to a bit of a disco, as throwing some shapes on the dancefloor, I knew, was his favourite way of working through tension. But when they got to the ballroom, expecting a disco, they found a big band playing schmaltzy Schlager, and dozens of formally dressed couples doing the foxtrot and the waltz.

Jutta was confused. She had signed up for a dinner and dance cruise, but hadn't actually bothered checking what kind of music would be featured. Still, she tried to make the best of it, and gamely offered to give it a go. Ralf, however, was absolutely flummoxed. He hadn't a clue how to dance to that kind of music, didn't know any of the steps, and felt so self conscious on the dance floor that he simply sat down and refused to dance any further. Jutta, being bubbly and vivacious and pretty, and having already made friends with most of the other couples at the opening night dinner, soon rounded up another dance partner, leaving Ralf with the old maids and the unwilling husbands. He did not have his wife's easy way with strangers, and found it difficult to make friends onboard. So he sat by himself, and he fumed. And soon enough, he turned to texting.

For several days, this went on. I spent my days with my Mum, then returned to my bedroom at night, to share a glowing screen with a man half the world away, complaining about terrible music on a dancefloor in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Jutta was popular, and in demand with the other guests, but Ralf was sullen and awkward. He said it hurt him, how his wife got a lot of pitying glances, but he was simply unable to enjoy himself to this awful music, even for her sake.

By about day 5 or 6, Ralf was in open rebellion over the appalling music. But at last, he had found a friend - or at least a partner in crime. He had been standing by the bar, waiting to buy a white wine spritzer for his wife, when he heard two 60-something men with Rhineland accents also debating the musical choices. One of them was more than satisfied with the selection, reminiscing about good times gone past. The other was more disgruntled, complaining >>But when did we become such old men? This isn't what we listened to when we were young. We were the disco generation! How about some disco? Some Chic, some Donna Summer, maybe even some of the old Kraftwerk, eh? _She is a model and she's looking good._ Ooh, remember how we used to dance to that at Mora's! <<

Ralf had gone over and touched the man gently on the arm. >>Well<< he had said to the man's stunned expression. >>I have neglected to bring any of Kraftwerk's equipment, so I cannot put on an impromptu performance for you. But I am in agreement that our Disco music was far superior to this.<<

The pair of them had formed an instant alliance, complaining as only two cranky old German men could complain. The complaints embarrassed Jutta, who had actually been enjoying the old-time Schlager, and the classy, old-fashioned dancing. The new best friend persuaded Ralf to DJ with Spotify, on his iPad in a cabin, and threw an impromptu disco which kept half the ship up all night, and ended up with the stewards getting involved to shut it down. Ralf was having fun for the first time in the cruise, but Jutta was mortified that her husband had been involved in such a stunt, especially as it was her friends who had been most affected by the noise.

Then they reached the Seychelles, where it was rainy season, and they were confined to their hotel for three days. Ralf's New Best Friend dragged them off on a bar crawl to the most disreputable establishments on the island, where Ralf was pickpocketed of his wallet; luckily he had been texting on his phone, or they would have got that, too. There followed a miserable day on the phone back to Germany, trying to get his cards cancelled, and then it was back on the Not-So-Disco Boat for a slightly more subdued trip home. The weather had turned nasty, and more often than not the evening's events were cancelled, but Ralf and Jutta were so irritated with one another by that point that the entire trip seemed to be doing more harm than good.

But then again, by the time they got home, they were both so relieved to be off that awful pitching ship that they found some solidarity in their return to dry land. Both of them resolved firmly to never set foot on a ship again, for the sake of their marriage.

By contrast, my Mum and I had a blast. We went to the Courthault Collection, and walked round the Inns of Court. We shopped at Liberty and at John Lewis, we sifted for bargains at Marks and Sparks and Debenhams, and we ate curries in Tooting. Although I wasn't cycling as much as I had in Düsseldorf, I was whipping up and down Brixton Hill several times a day on my lodger's bike, to my Mum's hotel and back.

But I really noticed it the most, when we were shopping. I simply had no idea what size I was any more. I had gone to a dressing room with my Mum, and when I undid the belt of my jeans, they slipped down off my hips without my even undoing the button. When I went to check the size, I realised they were the skinny jeans I had bought in Mexico City. Even these now hung off me. All of the jeans my Mum had brought into the dressing room for me were the same. Everything was hugely too big for me, and hung and bagged in awkward places. I tried on another size smaller, and stared at myself in the mirror. My arse was still huge. There was no getting away from it. And I still had quite a bit of a belly. But my legs were now long and shapely, maybe even muscular, with powerful thighs.

However, although I thought I looked pretty good in jeans, as soon as I took them off, I could see how puckered and pockmarked my legs were, dappled with cellulite and not particularly sexy. But still, I bought a pair of black jeans in this new, smaller size, then went home and dug through boxes of old clothes until I found old things I hadn't worn in years because they were too small. My grey pinstripe suit? That fit, now. I moved it into a suitcase to take to Düsseldorf. Pair of Levi's I hadn't been able to zip since 2006? They fit, albeit a little snugly. My old leather jeans. They scared me a little as I pulled them up over my thighs. They zipped, and then they dropped down and rode low on my hips, the way they used to. Did I dare wear my old leather jeans in Düsseldorf, or would Ralf think I was taking the piss out of him? I dithered over it, but still left them on top of my suitcase.

On New Years Eve, my Mum and I didn't dare brave the free public transport to go into town, to watch the fireworks over the river, but we climbed to the top of Brixton Hill to see lights erupt all over the city. For once, I remembered the time difference, and texted Ralf at 11pm GMT. He texted back at midnight, but my Mum and I were caught up in a communal singalong of Auld Lang Syne. Text messages and email greetings dropped in from all sorts of friends, and I suddenly felt guilty that I hadn't made more of an effort to see people over the break.

But still, I had four days left with my Mum, and I needed to make the most of them. We had a laugh, but we had serious talks, too. I knew she was getting old, and though she talked cheerily of major trips around Europe that she would take now that she was retired, I couldn't shake the fear that this might be the last time she might come to England. But then, looking at the passport she had left out on her hotel nightstand, I realised with a shock that she was only three years older than Ralf. That did give me a pause, as I thought about how much older Ralf was than me. He didn't feel that much older than me when we were together, and I certainly didn't think he looked it. But as I stared at my Mum's birthdate, I realised he was my Mum's generation, not mine.

I hated saying goodbye to my Mum. I was always moody and tense the day before she left, and found myself picking fights with her that I didn't mean, just because I didn't want her to go. She was annoyed at my texting Ralf so much. I told her to butt out. She asked if I was really willing to risk this job by fooling around with my boss. I didn't answer, not wanting to be provoked into a stupid row.

"But you seem happy," she finally conceded. "And you look good. Germany has definitely been good for your health. I can't believe how slim you are."

I cringed, not wanting to get into it, as I knew that any comment on my weight now was a negative reflection on what my body had looked like before. But still, I hugged her, and tried hard not to cry. She was taking a taxi to the airport with her strong American dollars, so she could avoid the rush hour tube, so we had to say our goodbyes on the kerb outside the hotel. We hugged one another, and I told her I loved her, and asked her to email to let me know she was safe, when she got home. Then she got in the minicab, waved, and was gone.

I had another two days in London, to sort things out, and try to take care of all the million and one things I'd left undone while my Mum was there. Then it was back to Düsseldorf to face the music with Ralf. Ralf, who I was now texting every day, a dozen times a day, keeping those tiny threads of our daily life interwoven. Wait, no, it had been good to take a break from him, to not have to have his overwhelming physical presence around for three weeks. We had, in some ways, with distance, definitely untangled. He was a friend, a good friend, even an intimate friend. That sense of heightened emotion, and the drama, it had definitely diminished. But the sense of intimacy, of connection, of needing to share every exciting thing with him, that had not diminished at all.


	26. Explosion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Katrin's journey home is interrupted by disaster, Ralf and Katrin are finally forced to confront the depth of their feelings for one another.
> 
> Note: a gentle reminder that this is fiction, and obviously the events portrayed in this story have not happened, and hopefully / thankfully will not ever actually happen.

I woke up on Saturday morning, packed the last of my bags (on a last minute impulse, I stuffed the leather trousers into my suitcase) then got on the Thameslink to St Pancras to catch the Eurostar. I tried to check in, but something was wrong. All of the staff seemed very distracted, refusing to answer any questions, closing then re-opening the security counters. I finally managed to get scanned, and got inside the waiting area, only to see that my train was delayed. Then the Paris train just ahead of it dropped off the board, even though all of the passengers were still waiting in the lounge to board. A minute later, it reappeared, but just said "Delayed". "Delayed" turned to "Cancelled" abruptly, without warning, then a group of people in uniform went running past, up the boarding gates, leaving an armed policeman at the bottom of the ramp.

"Turn on the news!" someone shouted. "There's been a bomb."

The entire hall erupted into chatter almost to the edge of shouting. People were getting hysterical, as the word "bomb!" kept leaping out of the background noise. I got out my mobile and tried to connect to the internet, loading first The Guardian site, and then Twitter. Massive explosion in Calais, reported one tweet. Eurostar exit blocked; train trapped in tunnel, claimed another. Someone blamed terrorism. An incident was reported in the refugee camp nearby. Someone else reported an act of war, retaliation for a British bombing raid. Even as I was trying to hit refresh, and work out what was going on, an announcement came over the loudspeakers saying that the Eurostar Terminal was now closing, all trains to France and Belgium were cancelled until further notice, and police would clear the room as they searched for more bombs.

Open panic erupted in the terminal, as several hundred people tried to move for the exit, the track, and the information desk all at once. Everything was in chaos. No one had any information. Reports of an explosion were coming through on the television now, but we were kicked out of the room, luggage and all, and left standing on the street outside Kings Cross in our hundreds. There was a siren. Someone was screaming - no, just an upset child. I hit refresh on my phone and tried to load the Guardian's breaking story. There had been an explosion near Calais. A portion of the Channel Tunnel had collapsed, with a train reportedly trapped in the Southbound tunnel. But there was no further information as to the cause.

I didn't know what to do. My first instinct was to stay, and try to work out when the trains would be running again. But then a leaked police helicopter photo loaded on Twitter, showing the size of the damage. This was way beyond the Forest Hill Sinkhole. This was an entire 50-foot section of the tunnel that had collapsed like a bomb crater. There would be no more trains running that day - I doubted they could do anything within the week. Avoiding any further trains or anything underground, I found myself drifting towards the bus stop, and got on the 59 as soon as it came. I had no idea what to do. My lodger would be returning that afternoon, so I would no longer have a flat. But there was no way I was getting back to Germany in a hurry.

Thinking of my Mum, I dashed off a quick email, explaining what had happened, but telling her I was alive, and I was fine. I had not been on the train that was stuck; I was safe. Then I pulled up airline site after airline site, trying to book a flight for today or tomorrow, into Düsseldorf or Köln. There was nothing. The bus rattled on, People got on and off. The police got on, checked everyone's tickets and IDs, asked about my luggage, but I told them it was mine; I'd just been kicked off a Eurostar. Everyone turned to stare, and I could feel people moving away from me on the crowded bus, as if bad luck was somehow contagious.

I changed at Brixton, to a less crowded bus, but there was still the problem of the flights. I checked several sky-scanner type websites, checked even Gumtree, but it was mostly full of people like me, stranded in London and looking for somewhere to stay. Shit! I wondered if the hotel my Mum had stayed in had a room open. Fortunately, when I got off the bus and hauled my suitcase up the road, the receptionist remembered me, and even told me I could have my Mum's old room for the night. I almost cried with relief as I checked in.

Taking out my phone, I set it up on the desk to take advantage of the hotel's wi-fi to try to find another airline that might have flights. Cursing my inadequate knowledge of German geography, I tried even Hamburg, but that was even busier than Düsseldorf. Köln wasn't available until Wednesday, and Düsseldorf wasn't available until Thursday, but Hamburg had no flights except first class (which I did not even want to look at the price of) until the following weekend. Even the little budget flight airport near Essen was booked up for days.

As I cycled through my browser windows and apps, I saw that there was a new email in my inbox - oh shit, it was Ralf.

"Katrin, where are you? Please let me know you are safe. I've tried ringing but there's no answer and I'm terrified to think of you in that tunnel. If you can, just please get a message to me. Ralf."

I'd had the phone on silent, so I hadn't heard it ring. Moving from the internet to the phone, I realised there were two missed calls and three text messages, all from Ralf. Thinking it was easiest, I hit reply to the email, and wrote back that I was stranded in a hotel near Brixton, but that I was safe. Thirty seconds after I hit send, the phone rang in my hands.

"Katrin," he said, almost as soon as I answered. "Oh, it is so good to hear your voice. You are safe? I was so afraid you had got the early train, and were trapped in the tunnel, when you did not answer the phone."

"No, I'm fine," I assured him. "I'm in a hotel. Have they still not got the train out?"

"No... you see, I have been glued to the television. They have evacuated the rear of the train, through the emergency access tunnel. But the front part of the train is under a pile of rubble. They are afraid of setting off more collapse if they move the train, so they have to stabilise the tunnel before they get the rest of the people out."

"Oh Christ," I swore, thinking of those poor people, trapped in that airless space, under rock, not knowing when more would fall. If I hadn't been too cheap to pay the extra ten pounds to get the earlier train, I would have been one of them. "That's terrible."

"It is, but you are safe. That is all that matters to me." I could hear the relief in his voice. "When are you coming home?"

I almost laughed and told him that I was only a few blocks from my home, and that was the problem, but then I realised he meant Germany. "I don't know. I've looked for flights to Düsseldorf and Köln, but there's nothing. It's booked solid until late in the week. I guess I'm just going to have to bite the bullet and stay in this hotel... I can't go back to my flat, as my lodger is there."

"No, this will not do," said Ralf with an imperious air. "Give me a few minutes, and I will call you back. Stay by the phone, don't go anywhere."

"Where am I going to go?" I laughed, and said goodbye. I stared around the walls of the hotel, thinking how strange it was to be back there. It wasn't so bad, though. I felt reassured by speaking to Ralf, soothed by his confident voice, though I could not stop thinking of those poor people trapped in the tunnel.

I got up to use the loo, and considered making a cup of tea with the now-familiar kettle, but when I got back to the laptop, I saw that there was a new email, from an unfamiliar German company. As I was opening it, my phone rang.

"There," said Ralf. "It is sorted. In a few minutes, you should receive an eTicket. I have booked you on a flight, tomorrow morning, from City Airport, to Frankfurt. Can you be on it?"

I opened the email and almost cried with relief. "Yes. Yes, that's fine. I can make that. But... where the hell is Frankfurt?"

Ralf's little breathy laugh sounded very odd over the telephone, but he gently told me. "It is on the River Main, a tributary of the Rhine. It's only a short drive from Bonn. Do not worry. I will drive down and collect you myself. I am so relieved I will meet you at the airport. Everything will be fine."

I spent most of the day in the hotel, feeling very trapped outside time, leaving only to go and get dinner at a nearby restaurant. I barely slept, endlessly refreshing the internet, and watching the hourly news updates from the tunnel. The rescue team had cleared out all of the carriages except the last one, which was badly damaged. The driver had been killed instantly when the impact happened, and the front carriage had crumpled, injuring several of the passengers.  I tried to sleep, but the images haunted me. I had been on that train far too many times recently to sleep well.

Finally, some time after midnight, rescue workers managed to clear a path through the safety access tunnel to the stricken carriage, and slowly, carefully, they unloaded the injured passengers out a window on stretchers. Everyone looked exhausted, their faces pale and drawn beneath the blood and the dirt. One woman had passed out from loss of blood; her husband had lost a limb and gone into shock. They had no idea if he would make it through the night. I would fall asleep, only to be jerked awake half an hour later by the updates on the hour, another face emerging from the rubble, another life saved. Everything seemed so trivial, so mundane, compared to the drama on my screen. The petty rows with my mother; the awkward sexual tension with Ralf. None of it mattered. I was alive, and I was unharmed, safe in a hotel, not trapped in a train underground for 18 hours. Everything seemed surmountable, compared to that.

Still, I got up at the crack of the dawn, checked out of the hotel, and made my way to City Airport. The route was oddly like the one I used to take to work, when I was still at Canary Wharf, though of course it was weirdly quiet on a Sunday morning. I was wearing the leather trousers, partly because they were the topmost thing in my suitcase, and partly because I felt I needed some kind of armour to cope with the day. I always stood differently when I wore them, hips splayed, legs apart like a gunslinger.

Security was very tight at the airport. I had to be scanned and checked twice, then taken aside and had my handluggage searched, until the culprit turned out to be the pocket recording device, that I used for recording the interviews with Ralf. I explained that I was a writer, played a minute and a half of Ralf droning on about touring England with synthesisers that wouldn't stay in tune, and they let me go.

I walked onto the plane, though it felt odd to be on one without Ralf's hand to hold during takeoff and landing, and waited for it to carry me safely back to Germany. He had booked me a Business Class seat without even thinking about it. Luxury would always remind me of Ralf, now. But the wide, comfortable seat was not as reassuring without Ralf sitting by the aisle. The businessman it now belonged to looked me over as he sat down, but frowned at the leather trousers. I just ignored him, wanting to stare out the window, but all of Europe seemed covered in a thick layer of cloud.

The flight was almost impossibly short. Honestly, getting through the security clearances had taken longer than we were in the air. The airplane descended bumpily through the clouds (turbulence, too, now just made me think of Ralf) into miserable, pissy rain. I could barely see the river; it just looked like a muddy grey-brown strip, swollen by the winter rain. The airplane dropped out of the sky, the runway rushing up to meet us, and we landed with a bump and a slight bounce, before the tiny plane skidded to a stop. Ugh. I hated flying, but now it seemed that taking the train wasn't any safer.

I passed through immigration quickly in the EU queue, wondering how much longer my beautiful red passport would be valid, then waited to collect my baggage. Since it had been delayed going onto the plane on account of my being detained, luckily it was the first off the plane. Dragging it behind me, I pushed through customs, scanning the crowd for Ralf.

There he was, somehow smaller than I had remembered, a little balder, a little plumper, a little older and more stooped than the figure that loomed large in my imagination. Ralf in the flesh was always somehow so different from my mental picture of "Ralf", his bad posture making him seem shorter than me though I knew we were the same height. And yet I was so relieved to see him, I almost broke into a trot. Letting go of my suitcase, I walked towards him, seeing his face light up with relief, and... something else.

We looked at each other for just a moment, then he threw his arms around me and pulled me close to him. This was not a normal Ralf hug, reserved and cautious, involving arms and maybe shoulders, as he leaned forward to keep the rest of his body out of the greeting. That morning, Ralf simply wrapped himself around me, pressing his whole body against me, squeezing me so tight I almost couldn't breathe. My head spun. I was tired, and I was so frightened I hadn't even realised how much I had been running on adrenaline until it was all over. I tried to control it, but I couldn't. Tears were leaking out of my eyes as I started to shake.

>>No, no, no<< said Ralf, his accent flattening the harsh German 'nein' almost to a 'ney' as he started to stroke my hair. >>I am here now, you are safe.<< His hands were on my cheeks, wiping the tiny streaks of tears away, and suddenly we pulled apart slightly, just starting at one another as he cupped my face in his hands. And then he kissed me.

Time stopped. It's a cliché, isn't it? But I felt as if I were somehow outside of my body as he kissed me, watching Ralf and myself kissing in Frankfurt Flughafen, while crowds of people streamed to either side of us. And yet, at the same time, there seemed to be nothing in the world but Ralf's lips against mine, his tongue inside my mouth, his hands on my cheeks, my hands on the back of his neck, tangling in his short hair, holding him against me like I never wanted to let him go. Three months of repressed longing went into that kiss, and I realised as his mouth worked against mine hungrily, as his fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me towards him, that there was as much longing on his side as there was on mine.

The arrivals lounge cleared out. We were alone except for the staff, and I think we would have gone on kissing forever, had a security guard not approached us.

>>Excuse me! Sir, madam. Is this your suitcase?<< he demanded.

I pulled away from Ralf, and stared at the suitcase, barely recognising it as my own. >>Yes, yes, of course. It is mine.<<

>>Please keep a closer watch on it, Madam.<<

Nodding, I went to take command of it, but Ralf grasped me by the lapels and pulled me back to him. "I am in love with you," he said, in a flat, almost emotionless voice. "I am tired of pretending that I am not. When I saw the news... when I thought you were... I realised I could no longer imagine my life without you in it."

I stared at him, unable to even conceive of how to respond, though I could see from the desperate look in his eyes that he wanted something back from me. "OK," I managed to stutter. "But what do we do?"

That was not the right answer. He frowned. "Do you love me?" he asked, with an edge of vulnerability creeping into his voice. That vulnerability, that desperate longing to be liked, that little-boy need; I was helpless against it.

"Ralf, it's complicated," I tried to hedge, feeling all of my emotions spinning about my head, tightening my chest. All I knew was that it felt good, when he was holding me.

"No, it is not complicated. Not at the core," he insisted, grasping me even more tightly, pulling me against him. "Forget these things you always say... forget 'oh you are my boss'; forget 'oh, you are married'. Forget 'Ralf Hütter'; forget 'Kraftwerk'. Just look at me as a woman looking at a man, and tell me. Do you love me?"

"I..." My head felt like it was going to explode. "I think... I think if you weren't married, and you weren't my boss, then I probably would? But, you are... and this... this is not the time or the place, and it's... well, it's pointless to discuss it."

"It never is the right time, for you," said Ralf crankily. "You are forever putting me off, you never want to discuss your feelings for me. I just want you to stop pretending you don't have them. _Talk_ to me. Tell me how you feel about me. Do you love me, or are you just pretending, playing games with me, to get a good story?"

"I am not pretending anything, Ralf. And you know me, I don't play games. But we are never alone. Or else, we are alone, but we are not really alone. We are at Klingklang, or we are at my apartment, or in a hotel room, terrified that my landlord, or a colleague, or someone will walk in. What chance do we have to talk about our feelings, let alone do anything about them, when we never have any privacy?"

"So you do have feelings?" Ralf demanded. "You have feelings for me?"

"Of course I do," I sputtered. "But what do you expect me to _do_ about them?"

Ralf stared at me, moistening lips that had been kissing me only a few minutes earlier. I liked the kissing thing much better than I liked this arguing thing, but it seemed awfully un-diplomatic to point it out. "Come with me to a hotel," he said, a command rather than a request.

"What?" I stuttered. Really, I was sick of hotels, and just wanted to go home, but those two weeks in my flat had made me realise. I no longer had a home.

"Please," he added stiffly. "We can talk, we can make love, we can do whatever you want to do. But please, just come with me, give me one night, when we can really, truly, be alone together."

He sounded so earnest, I had to suppress a snort of laughter, but at this he frowned so fiercely I had to come up with some apology. "No, I'm sorry. I'm not laughing at you. But no one has called it 'making love' since the 70s."

Ralf shrugged, then smiled, his whole face lighting up in that little-boy grin. "But I am from the 70s."

Helpless against that boyish smile, I reached out and touched his face, terrified to say anything, lest I break the spell. "But can you stay overnight? Won't you be missed?"

As I saw the determination in his face, I realised that he had planned this. "I told my family I am meeting a business associate in Brussels, and if the trains are delayed on account of the Tunnel Explosion, then I will probably stay overnight. We have a day, maybe two."

I stared at him, barely believing what I was hearing, but believing even less that I really was going to go along with this. "Ralf," I said quietly, lowering my voice. "I want to be very clear, before I agree, what I am agreeing to. Are you asking me to have an affair with you?"

He ran his hand very gently down my cheeks and across my mouth, though I could not resist kissing his fingers as they passed. "Katrin, we are _already_ having an affair. In our hearts, in our thoughts, in our daily communications. I'm just asking both of us to stop lying to each other about it."

In my heart, I knew it was true. Although there had never been a single moment, where I could say with certainty that it had begun, I knew that there was a line, somewhere, and we had crossed it, maybe months ago. "This is true," I conceded. "Yes. Let's go. Quickly, before I change my mind."

He reached over and took control of my suitcase, towing it without even being asked. With his other hand, he took my arm in his, and strode off towards the exit. Ralf walked fast; I liked how fast Ralf walked, as it meant I never had to slow my own pace. But today, we both walked with an extra sense of urgency. Were we really going to do this? It seemed we were.

Pausing as we came to the door, he dropped my arm for a moment, to pull out his gloves, and pull them over his hands. Then he took my hand again, the leather smooth and cool against my skin. Squeezing his hand, I gripped it tightly, and he turned to me and grinned. This was the Ralf that occupied my thoughts; those twinkling blue eyes and that excited little-boy smile.

When we got to the car, he opened the boot and lifted my suitcase inside, but I saw that he had a small black overnight bag, already in there. So he really had planned this incredibly carefully. I had always thought... well, no. I hadn't dared to _think_. I had just occasionally fantasised in an idle moment, or obsessed and feared and worried about what might happen if either of us ever let go of our tight control. 

I had imagined how an affair might happen, if it ever happened: that it would be an impulsive thing, just going that little bit too far, stepping over the line while drunk or otherwise distracted. I imagined it would be a mistake, a drunken snog, touching one another up lecherously in the dark. I never dreamed that it would be something he would think about, and plan, and execute carefully, with the ruthless efficiency of a bank heist. But of course he would. This was Ralf, after all. Ralf, a calm, collected, organised German. Ralf had never been impulsive in his life.

We climbed into the car together. I had been in his car many, many times, but it had never felt like such an intimate space. Reaching out, he touched my face, grasping my chin with one leather glove and pulling it towards him to deposit a tiny kiss.

"We will go to the Sheraton, yes?" he asked. "It is more discrete. You will check in, under your name. My name is too easily recognised."

"Wait, how am I to pay for..." I blurted out, but Ralf reached for his wallet, and pulled out a chunk of cash, carefully counting out three hundred euros. At that moment, I felt oddly like a prostitute.

"Put it on your English bank card. An English bank card, an English passport will around less suspicion. There will be many English tourists stranded in Europe this weekend. Speak English as much as you can, with the staff. I will do the same."

I giggled, as the whole thing started to take on the tone of some charade. "Your accent, my dear," I laughed. "Will not pass muster."

Ralf smiled, and picked up my hand, raising it to his lips. "Your lover is a typical taciturn Englishman. He does not speak much."

A shiver passed through me as his lips brushed my skin. But I did not let go of his hand, pulling it down towards me and placing it carefully on my thigh. He looked down, saw the leather, and smiled, grasping me slightly to feel the catch of leather against leather.

"I like these. Are they new?"

I shook my head. "They are very old."

He smiled. "I used to have a pair, when I was much younger, and interested in such foolish things. I think they used to make me feel bold, and a little sexy, to wear them."

"Yes," I said. "We have discussed this before. Maybe you should wear them still."

He laughed aloud, that short, curt, breathy snort. "I was much slimmer in my youth. They will no longer button." And with that, he removed his hand from my thigh to put the car into gear, though my thigh still seemed to hold some ghost impression of his touch.

He paid the parking attendant - cash, so no record - then drove out of the airport, maybe about 500 metres before coming to a huge, modernist complex, all shiny glass and globular rounded edges. Ralf drove carefully around this, until he reached a huge, imposing, Corporate Modern conference centre with a familiar S logo on it, and pulled up to the front door.

"You go in and book a room," he told me. "I will park, and bring up the luggage..." But as he spoke, a porter arrived, hovering as if he wanted to open my door. Ralf shrugged and popped the trunk, gesturing backwards, and the porter went round the back to fetch our suitcases, while I got out and hovered awkwardly on the kerb. "I will meet you in the lobby in ten minutes," Ralf called.

Following the porter inside, I rehearsed what I needed to do and say, reminding myself to pretend I didn't really speak German.

"Guten Morgen. Haben Sie eine Reservierung?" chirped the very attractive woman of indeterminate age at the reception desk.

"Hallo," I said, really hamming up my bad accent. "Erm, nein. Nichts reservations. Mein Mann und ich... erm... wir haben... gestranden..." I liked the ambiguity of calling Ralf 'mein Mann.' In German, it usually meant 'my husband' and I knew she would take it as such, but literally, it simply meant 'my human'.

The woman frowned and gently corrected, "Sie _wurden_ gestrandet?"

"Ach," I sighed. "Sprechen Sie Englisch?"

"A little." An icy smile.

"I am so terribly sorry. We are stranded. The train, you see. We thought we could perhaps get a flight? But there are no flights today. Maybe tomorrow? Oh, I am so sorry to inconvenience you, but do you possibly have a room we could have until then?"

The woman was already typing into her machine. "This seems to be a common problem today, with the English. Let me just see..." I worried, from her manner, that they were going to put a premium on rooms for stranded English tourists. "We have some of the King Size rooms still available, but there will be a premium..." Of course there was. Well, it would be Ralf they were taking to the cleaners, not me.

"Whatever you have, we will be grateful for. Money is no object. We just need a place to stay for a day or two."

She smiled a killer smile. "May I please see your passport and credit card?"

I produced both - of course I pulled out only my English bank card - and she took the details down carefully.

"And where is your husband? I will need his details."

"He is parking the car." Suddenly, an icy finger of fear prodded at my heart. A stranded English tourist wasn't the slightest bit suspicious, but a German national pretending to be English in the middle of a potential terrorist incident could bring more trouble than a cheating husband.

"Ah, you have a car. What is the registration plate?"

"Erm, I don't remember? It's not ours, of course," I hedged. "A small, grey Mercedes. I think the plate starts KR... something..." Of course, I knew Ralf's licence plate by heart, but I had to pretend not to.

"Krefeld," she supplied, with a faint smile, then stopped typing and looked up at me as if caught in a memory. "I had a boyfriend from Krefeld, once." I tried to look at her blankly, as if I had no idea what she was talking about, but panic was stirring in the pit of my stomach. She looked exactly Ralf's type, too, small and blonde with that slightly fierce expression of very efficient German women.

"Oh, where is that? Is it near here?" I asked disingenuously. "It's a hire car we picked up in Cologne. My partner will return it when we manage to catch a flight."

She turned back to her computer terminal, disinterested, and the panic passed. "Ah, never mind, I have not seen Gerhard in years. i will put your check-out date as open, but please let us know before 10am on the day you plan to leave, so we do not charge you for the next day." She took my card and swiped it through the machine before handing it back for me, taking out a passkey and initiating it for me in the small, magnetic strip-reader.

"Hi," said a voice with an almost-convincing American accent. Ah. Finally, Ralf had reappeared and approached the desk, hovering around me, though he did not remove his sunglasses. The receptionist nodded an acknowledgement of his presence and produced another passkey. Technically, I knew she was supposed to ask for ID from him, but I could see there was now a queue of more tourists, possibly stranded English people, forming behind us, and she was now in a hurry. She handed us a sheaf of papers, I signed something, then she returned my documents and handed Ralf the passkeys.

"Have a good stay. Nächste!" she called out, as I looked around for our porter. Luckily, Ralf took charge of the porter, and sorted out tipping him as we reached our room, as I didn't have a clue about that sort of thing. As he left, Ralf bolted the door behind him, and we were alone.

Ralf and I stared at one another, as he removed his sunglasses. He shed his leather jacket, hanging it up carefully in the cupboard by the door, then held out his hand for my own. I took off my bomber jacket and passed it over to him. After stopping for a moment to pull off his boots, he made his way over to one of the beds, then sat on it, staring up at me expectantly as if he had planned this far, but didn't have a clue what to do next. I looked nervously around the room, trying to take it all in. It was, to be fair, a luxurious room, with two huge, king-size beds, and beyond them, a small seating area with a view out picture windows over the airport. It was all very neutral, very beige, with an understated elegance that whispered its expensiveness, rather than shouting it. Even the art was understated, tasteful black and white prints of the Rhine, but there was absolutely no personality to the room at all. There was a desk, with wi-fi details printed above it, and a small table supporting a coffeemaker and some cups.

"Would you like a coffee?" I offered, spying a chance to put off talking, or... whatever we were going to do. Now that we were actually alone in the room, I was more than a little afraid of what was to come.

But his face flushed with relief. "You are an angel."

I filled the carafe in the bathroom - wow, we had a pretty palatial bathroom - then walked back to fuss over the machine. As I stood there, fiddling with the coffee pack, I felt someone walk up behind me, wrapping their arms around me and placing a small, sharp chin on my shoulder as he squeezed me from behind, pressing himself into my buttocks.

"It's such a relief to be able to finally hold you," he breathed into my ear. "You're so soft. You feel so good in my arms."

I put my hand on his, gave him a brief squeeze, then finished setting up the coffeemaker. One must have priorities, after all. Then I turned in his grasp, to face him. It was so strange to look at him, from this close up. I could see a month and a half's growth of grey at the roots of his hair, the lattice of fine lines around his eyes, the striations and valleys that descended from each side of his narrow mouth. His skin, this close, was a patchworks of colours, pale pink, clammy grey, brown moles, red blotches and tan freckles... he was intensely freckled, his temples, his cheeks... he even had freckles on his eyelids. 

I could see so many faces, crowded into that one space. Here was Ralf, my friend, my boss, my lover. And here was this whole host of different images and fantasies that I had projected onto the idea of 'Ralf Hütter' over the years. And yet, still, somewhere under the grid of fine lines, I could still see the young man peering out of this older man's recessed eyes. It seemed too much for this small, old, tired-looking man to bear. Which of these many people was the person I actually loved? If, indeed, I actually loved any of them. Confronted with the reality of him, close up, my mind felt clouded with confusion. 

But then he leaned forward, his eyes misting over slightly as he looked down at my lips, and he kissed me. There it was; there was desire. I tangled my fingers in his faded hair, as his hands went lower down, searching for my arse. His fingers touched leather, and started to squeeze, pulling me towards him, crushing me against his body.

"Ooh, he said breathily. "I _really_ like these."

And suddenly we were grappling at one another, hands and fingers everywhere, touching, squeezing, pawing, almost tearing at one another as we rolled backwards onto the bed. His kisses were almost fierce, but I sucked his tongue hungrily into my mouth as he pushed against me, parting my legs and pushing between them, humping up against me as I could feel his excitement starting to rise. Before I realised it, he had unbuttoned my leathers, and pushed one hand inside. Encouraged by his boldness, I grasped at him feeling through his trousers for his cock. Oh god, yes, he was hard already. If I just unzipped his flies, I could get a real hold on him, trying to measure his dimensions with my palm. His fingers searched between my thighs, found my outer labia, and started to try to work his way inside. But as my fingers found the tip of his cock, and his middle finger touched wet, we both abruptly stopped at almost the same time, and looked at each other, our faces frozen with worry and fear.


	27. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ralf gives Katrin a _very_ intimate German lesson.
> 
> Inspired by a comment / prompt on Captain Awkward about wanting more realistic sex scenes, not just in terms of enthusiastic consent, but also in terms of two imperfect people getting to know one another's bodies, what works and what doesn't, and she said something about 'getting naked with someone for the first time, when you have scars'.
> 
> Warning: this chapter goes straight from a Mature rating to flat-out Explicit. Also content note for passing reference to self-harm.

Ralf's and I pulled our heads back from the kiss, and he looked at me, as I looked at him, the nervousness between us almost palpable as worried expressions turned to apologetic smiles. "We should slow down," he said, and I was actually glad that it was him who said it, and not me. I nodded, and smiled, and saw relief flush his face, too. "We have all night. I want this to last."

I nodded slowly, and pulled my hand out of his trousers, not really trusting my limbs to obey. "Let me finish preparing the coffee," I said, as calmly as I could, as Ralf extracted his hand from between my thighs, then slowly, curiously, raised it to his nose and sniffed.

"You smell so good," he said, very quietly, as I fussed with the cups, pouring two coffees. Looking about, I spied a small fridge, and opened it in search of milk, only to reveal several bottles of wine. "Well," I said. "Maybe we should just skip the coffee and head straight for the booze."

But Ralf frowned. "Katrin, you drink too much."

"You're not my mother," I said, aiming for flirty, but really, sounding just that bit too testy.

"I am your lover," he said, with a simplicity that almost slayed me. "I don't want you to get drunk. I want you to stay present with me, to stay sober, and... _present_ , when we make love."

I located and removed a package of UHT milk, then closed the door. Emotions were welling up inside me now that I didn't quite know how to deal with. "You don't know what you ask. I'm autistic. The sensation, when someone touches me... it's overwhelming. I have to deaden it a little bit, in order to be able to cope with something as overpowering as sex." With this speech delivered, I turned around to hand him his coffee, and found that he had retreated to the head of the bed. So I walked over to join him, and climbed in beside him, on the opposite side.

He sipped his coffee slowly, savouring it, then turned to look at me, his eyes open very wide. "You forget. I do know what I ask. This thing, remember... I have it, too. That's why I'm asking. I know... I know how intense it can be. How overpowering... and yet how _good_ it can be with someone who truly loves you."

I sipped at my coffee and just felt scared. Why did he keep saying he loved me? He barely knew me. And yet I knew every single thing about him; things about him his own mother - his own wife - didn't know. At that moment, the disparity of our relationship suddenly shocked me.

Finishing his coffee and placing the cup on the bedside table, he rolled over to face me. "What is it?" he asked. "What have I said to upset you?"

"I'm not upset," I lied.

"Your face is a window," said Ralf, gently pushing a tendril of hair off my forehead. "You know I struggle to read most people, I'm clumsy with it, I prefer to be stiff and formal to hide the fact that I can never tell how they feel. But you... you cannot keep your emotions off your face. You are upset."

"I'm scared," I confessed, placing my half-drunk cup of coffee on the table and turning over on my side to face him.

"Of what?" His hand continued to stroke my hair, to gently touch the side of my face.

Part of me thought I should lie, tell him something stupid - that I was afraid of discovery, that I was afraid of Jutta, but at that moment, I realised I didn't give a damn about Jutta. What if I told the truth? What did I had to lose? I was, indeed, stranded, in a foreign country, with a strange man, and my place to stay for the night, in fact, my entire wellbeing depended on maintaining the good graces of a man who I both adored and was terrified of.

I took a deep breath and told the truth. "Ralf, I know everything about you. I know your shoe size, your favourite colour, the name of your first teacher, when you learned to play piano, what you like in a synthesiser, what you love, what you're afraid of, your phobias, your fears of death, when your child was born, the car you drive, how you like your coffee, where you were on the first of May 1981, and the first record you ever bought. But you know absolutely nothing, about me."

Ralf smiled, with something that looked like relief, as his hand slipped off my face, down my shoulder, across my arm to rest on my hip. "That's not true," he assured me, with that very typical Ralf confidence.

"You said it yourself, in Mexico."

"I said you kept yourself from me, like a closed book that you were carefully guarding. I didn't say I knew nothing about you. I'm not an idiot. I know many things about you."

"Like what," I scoffed.

With his other hand, he reached out to tweak the tip of my chin. "I know that at heart, you are kind, and that you care very deeply about the people you love, though you are afraid to show it, and you are more afraid of getting it wrong if you do show it. I know you can be fierce, when you are riled up, but you are prepared to fight for what you believe in. I know you are very, very funny, that you see absurdity in everything, that you see things sort of... _sideways_ , like you are able to make me see new aspects of things I have seen a thousand times. I know you are highly competitive, though you like to pretend that you are not, that you are egalitarian. You are not egalitarian, you always want to be the best at everything."

"You describe yourself, not me," I scoffed, trying to push this portrait away from me, to deny that he knew me as well as was starting to reveal that he did.

"Well, yes. In these ways, we are alike. But still, you have a much stronger sense of justice than I do. It offends you, on a personal level, when things are _unfair_. Not just unfair for you, but unfair for anyone. You would be like Justice, with her scales, if you could, measuring out the fairness in the world. And you are unlike me, in that... you are casual, even a little slovenly in your appearance. You are far more relaxed about these things. But at the same time, you are extremely exacting in your work. Your fingernails are never the same length and your hair is always untidy, your parting is never straight, but your paragraphs are always perfect, and your maths is impeccable... it's almost as if you think ideas are more important than physical presence. You have a sweet tooth because you love sensations; you drink because you are afraid of people; and from the way you kiss, I think you would be extraordinarily passionate in your love-making. Do you need to tell me any more?"

I didn't say anything; I just started to cry.

"No, no," he said softly, pulling me towards him, into a tender embrace. "No need to cry. I am here."

"But how do you..."

"Sshhh," he said, stroking my hair. "As I said, I am not an idiot. When you interview me, have you not noticed it is a conversation, a dialogue? I notice, what topics you tend to ask me about, and I notice, what topics provoke the strongest reaction from you. You see, it is something my daughter told me, from her riding lessons: A rider may know her horse, but the horse, too, knows its rider."

I looked at him for a moment, but then almost burst out laughing. There were too many emotions to process, and I just didn't have a clue where to start. I realised, looking at this man whose arms I lay in, yes, I love this man. I kissed his cheekbone gently, and squeezed him. "Are you saying I ride you too hard, then?"

There was a definite grin at that, as his eyes twinkled. "Would you like to ride me? Is that not what we came here for?"

I laughed, but then looked at him quite seriously. "Ralf," I said, making sure I had his complete attention. "I need you to understand my hesitation. I came to Germany, three months ago, with a pop star crush on a man I didn't even know. Not even a man; an idea. And you are right, about how highly I value ideas. The emotions were... well, they were love, of a kind. But it was love for music, for art, for the way that music made me feel. Not love for a real person. But over the past three months, it's happened so slowly I almost couldn't tell it happened. I think I've fallen in love... not with an idea, not with a work of art, but with _you_. With this man I work with every day, and write with, and argue about grammar and sentence structure and what experiences belong in a biography. Can you tell the difference, and can you see why it might be hard for me to tell those emotions apart?"

He smiled and touched my face. "Yes, I think I can. Because it's not been just you having a crush out there on your own all these months. It has been you and me, the both of us together, falling in love with each other as we work on this book."

"You're sure?" I asked, but looking into his clear blue eyes, I could see no guile.

"Yes," he said. "I am quite sure I love you. So you love me?"

I smiled. "I think I do."

We started to kiss, again, less frenzied, but more in earnest this time. His hands were gentle, exploring more of my body, my back, my shoulders, my hips, my belly, rather than diving straight for my genitals. I kissed his neck, I nibbled at his ears, I ran my lips down the edge of that ridiculous jawline, tracing how he fit together. I kissed his shoulders as he ran his hand down the back of my legs, feeling how every centimetre of my skin came alive as he touched it.

"You are so soft," he kept exclaiming over every wobbly bit. "Your body _feels_ so good, to the touch."

I pulled back, smiling at him mischievously as my hands went to my neck, slowly unbuttoning my shirt. His eyes went all huge and round as I revealed my breasts, moving forward to kiss each cup before gently pulling them free of my bra. As his mouth found first one nipple, then the other, I arched my back, wrapping my legs around him. He seemed delighted, rubbing his face between them, latching his mouth onto first one, then the other, inhaling deeply as he softly murmured his joy. I tangled my fingers in his hair and just held him there, wrapping my legs around his waist to hold him close to me.

"Scheisse," he swore softly, as greedy as an infant as he reached behind me to unfasten my bra, leaving me naked from the waist up. I felt so exposed, and yet his obvious joy in my body seemed to make me feel less insecure. "Soft is not even the word for your breasts. Smooth? Tender? I don't know the word in English, but your skin is so... Ach!"

"Well, say it in German."

He grinned. "Would you like that? Well. Deine Haut ist so geschmeidig." He kissed my breast again.

To be honest, even just the sound of his voice excited me. He had a soft, considered, lovely speaking voice. >>How will I ever learn the German words for things, if you do not teach me?<<

It was a delightful German lesson. He kissed my breast, and said "Die Brüste". Then he licked my nipple, pulling it erect with his teeth, and said "Brustwarze". He kissed my ribs, and said "Rippen", then my belly, a kiss, "Bauch", then my hip, saying "Hüfte" as he pushed my trousers off them. My thigh received a kiss and "Schenkel". The mound of my pubic hair, as he ground his nose into it, inhaling deeply, received a kiss and an affirmation: "Busch. Ja, das ist ein schöner voller Busch." As he moved still lower, he whispered a word with such delicacy I realised it must be dirty: "Muschi." He moved further down, kissed my knee, my shin, my calf, my ankle, the arch of my foot, telling me the German word for each, then he pulled off my socks and kissed each and every one of my toes. He turned me over and said the word for the back of my knee, my thighs again, the small of my back, and then he tried to part my legs. "Ich liebe dein Arsch."

"There is enough of it," I laughed.

"I will never get over the way it _feels_ ," he said quietly, his voice muffled by my flesh. "So soft, so erotic. I am very turned on by your arse."

"The lesson is not over," I warned, though I was beginning to feel very aroused myself, and not even from the kisses, so much as the obvious _desire_ with which he accepted my chubby, stretch-marked, imperfect body.

"Do you want me to teach you the words for these other parts?" he offered, rubbing his fingers back and forth between my legs.

"No, I think this is unfair," I pointed out, tugging at his shirt. "I want you to be naked, too. And so I will repeat the words back to you."

"A kiss for each word you get right, a smack on the bum for each you get wrong... or will that inspire you to fail the course entirely?"

"I don't like being smacked," I told him, easing his button-down shirt off his shoulder and pushing up the sleeve of his undershirt as I said "Schultern".

" _Korrekt_ ," he said, and kissed me. 

"Arm, Ellbogen, Hand," I said, kissing each in turn. 

"These are easy, they are the same." For that, three kisses across my back. "Now what about this?" He pointed to where he wished to be kissed next.

"Bauch" I repeated. "Hüffte. Oberschenkel. I don't know what this is called, though..." I laughed, as his erect cock brushed my cheek through his y-fronts. He gave me a little smack on my bottom before giving me a hint. 

"Yes, you do. It's Müller's favourite swear word."

"Oh - Schwanz?"

"Korrekt." He laughed gently as I batted it back and forth, noting how erect he was. "Ja, ich habe ein Ständer."

"Ständer," I repeated, then nudged gently at the fabric pouch. "And these... Kugel?"

Ralf laughed aloud. "Nein. Das sind meine Eier."

I giggled, then moved swiftly on. "Kalb. Knie. Knöchel." Christ, he had such beautiful legs, very slim and yet knotted hard with muscles. I wished I had a pencil and a sketchbook, to trace the map of knobbled veins, as his calves were shaven as smooth as a baby's skin. "Fuss" I said, kissing the arch of his foot. "Zähne."

He laughed aloud and smacked me ever so gently. "No, that is teeth. Toes are _Zehen_."

"Now this needs to come off," I teased, lifting the hem of his undershirt with my teeth. "To complete the lesson."

"No, said Ralf, quite distinctly, taking the hem from me, and placing it back on his belly. "These can come off, though. They are causing me quite some discomfort." Reaching down, he pulled off his shorts to reveal his cock, already quite hard as it rose towards me.

"Why can't I take off your undershirt?" I asked, curious, but trying not to lose the mood.

He took my hand and folded it on his chest, as if to prevent any further mischief. "I have... scars. They can be... Well, they can be a bit alarming, I think."

I stared at him, trying to think if I'd ever seen him with a bare chest. Never. "I don't mind," I assured him, laying my head against his chest. "Let me see. Are they from your cycling accident?"

"No," he explained. "Those scars are tiny, and they are covered by my hair. Up here, see?" He pulled aside the longer hair at the crown of his head to reveal a very white patch of skin, with a thin, puckered line winding through it. "All that fuss over such a little thing."

"Then what is the scar on your chest?" Suddenly I bit my lip, realising I was being intrusive. "You don't have to tell me if you don't trust me."

He sighed deeply. "I trust you. It is just ugly. A reminder of a very strange period in my life. I had a heart attack."

"Oh my god, I had no idea."

Ralf shook his head slowly. "Why should you? We kept it from the press, quite deliberately."

"Were you alright?" I asked stupidly.

"Yes. Open heart surgery saved my life. But I had to make many lifestyle changes. A better diet. Less strenuous training, for cycling. And of course, less coffee."

"But you drink a lot of coffee," I observed.

"I used to drink maybe three times as much," he confessed. I shook my head and ran my fingers up and down the cotton of his undershirt, trying to trace between the lumps of his nipples. "You really want to see?" he asked.

"I do," I said. He shifted me off his chest, sat up, and then pulled his undershirt over his head, tossing it onto a chair. As he lay back down, I could see the long, silver-white ribbon of his scar, from approximately the centre of his stomach, all the way up across his sternum, and almost to the start of his neck. So that was why he never unbuttoned his shirts, either. A tiny tributary ran under each breast like a silver gully, as I traced the whole thing with my fingertips. He abruptly shivered. "Does that tickle?"

"A little," he confessed, but then added. "I don't mind. It feels kind of nice when you touch it."

Bending over, I kissed each nipple, and then ran my lips along the whole length of the scar. "It's beautiful," I said. "You're beautiful."

"I wouldn't go that far." He ran one hand down my back, resting it on my buttock, squeezing gently, but with his other, he picked up my hand, examining my wrist. "Are you going to tell me about these, then?"

I cringed, to see the great long scar puckering my right wrist. "I had an operation. An injury to my wrist. There was a ganglion bursa which had to be removed, as it was impeding my ability to type."

"That may be a surgical scar," observed Ralf, picking up my other hand. "But these are not."

For several minutes, there was silence between us, as he played with the lobes of my arse, but I tried to think what to say. Finally, I decided on the truth. "They are exactly what you think. I made a quite serious suicide attempt while I was a teenager."

"Katrin," he whistled, pulling me close and squeezing me against him, as if trying to nuzzle his way inside my body. "I wish I had known you then, I wish I could have... stopped you..."

"Ralf, I was 16, and you were in your late 30s, I think the authorities would have intervened." I was trying to make a joke of it, but Ralf just held me tighter and kissed me more tenderly. "It was a very long time ago. I was desperately unhappy. I wanted to connect with other people, and just couldn't. I felt helpless, and blocked everywhere I turned. Doesn't everyone, like us, go through those kinds of feelings, at that kind of age?"

"Yes, I felt unhappy when I was young. But I never tried to end it," said Ralf solemnly, before shrugging. "Maybe I lacked the courage."

"Does it take courage? Everyone said it was the coward's way out."

He shook his head slowly, still caressing me tenderly, as his fingers seemed to find their way down between my thighs, massaging at that slick passage for entrance. "It takes courage to end something that really isn't working. I never had that courage. Florian, now he had that kind of courage. He was always braver than I was. But I never did. So, yes, I think it does take courage." He paused, as he finally pushed his finger inside me. I inhaled sharply, but then squeezed myself tight around him. "Do you have any other scars I should know about?"

"Only on the inside."

"Don't we all," he sighed, pushing his finger further up inside me.

"I'm not speaking in metaphors. I..." Suddenly, I winced from the pain.

"What? What is it? Am I hurting you?" He struggled to withdraw his finger. "Katrin, you must say, and I will stop."

"No..." I put my hand on his, shifted slightly, and it was OK again. "It feels nice. But I have... well, I have something called fibroids, on my womb."

"This sounds rather alarming. What are they? Are they dangerous? Do they hurt?"

"They are benign but they make... well, they make sex rather painful from certain angles. I can't do... well, the missionary position is out, unless... well, that's the other reason I have to get drunk to enjoy sex," I admitted. It was also easier to have this kind of intimate conversation if I was drunk.

He looked perplexed, shifting around, and pulling me onto his chest, to make sure that I was lying on top of him. "That seems unfair. But it's a good thing you told me. Is there anything, I can do, to... I don't want to do something that is going to hurt you."

"It's only in certain positions that it hurts. It's much easier if... well..." His look of interest was so intent that I almost blushed.

"Tell me." His eyes sparkled as if this were enticing dirty talk of a highly erotic nature, rather than a medical discussion. I supposed, at our ages, they might well be the same thing. "What do you like. We will do that. I would only like to do what you enjoy."

"It's easier from behind," I confessed. Now his eyes really lit up. "Doggy style, or standing, or even spoon style..."

"I see," he said, pulling his finger out of me as he massaged my bum. "Do you want to turn around, then?" He put one hand on my hip as he turned me over on my side, manoeuvring me so that he was behind me, one arm underneath me, playing very gently with my breast from underneath, the other around my hips, pulling me towards him. "Tell me what to do, so this is good for you," he breathed in my ear as his cock slid between my legs. I was already very wet from his finger, and he was slipping back and forth between my outer lips. "How have your other boyfriends handled this."

I swallowed nervously as I could feel him angling for my vulva. "That's the thing, Ralf. There haven't been any boyfriends in, well... in a very long time."

"How long?" It was almost unbearable, the sound of his voice in my ear as his cock was nearly inside me.

"Ten years."

He stopped moving. I wanted to smack myself in the face for saying something so stupid, but his hand continued to play with my breasts as he seemed to hold his breath. Finally, he let it out. "That's a very long time. Why? Is there a reason it's been so long? Is it something I should know about?"

"It just happened. It is a very boring story. I just..." My voice gave out as I saw the entire evening slipping away. I had blown it. He didn't want me. Here came the rejection, after everything. If he pulled away from me now, I would not be able to stand it. "I'd rather not."

"I'm afraid," he confessed. "I'm worried that I'm pushing you into something you don't really want." How he could say this, with his cock, erect, between my thighs, I did not know; but his emotional control astonished me. "I am a very selfish man; all of my girlfriends have said so."

"I want _you_ ," I said, turning my head as far as I could to look at him, at those piercing blue eyes.

He smiled and kissed my cheek. "I am honoured. But please... stop me if it hurts." Slowly, he pushed his other hand between my legs, and spread my labia to he could push inside more easily. I winced; there was only a moment of pain, but then he was inside me. "You are so tight," he observed, his voice strained with desire.

"I'm sorry," I murmured, just trying to catch my breath. So this was sex. Again. It had been so long, I had forgotten what it was like. My entire life, I had heard how it was supposed to be so very different, with a man you truly loved, how it was supposed to be special, and meaningful, and even spiritual. But it was only sex. It was only Ralf, my lover, with his cock thrust between my legs, and me trying very hard to keep still so that it didn't hurt.

"Are you OK?" he asked gently. I nodded. "When you're ready to move, you go, OK?" I nodded again, then slowly, in an exploratory sort of way, started to push myself down onto him. For a moment it hurt, but then there was a kind of internal jolt as he pushed past something, and the passage became easier. Yes. It was nice. I clenched my buttocks together and started to move, back and forth, side to side, rather than up and down. "Fuck," he swore, his voice tight almost to the point of breaking.

"I'm sorry," I said again. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"Quite the reverse. I cannot tell you the last time I have been so turned on... You are so tight..." I laughed, and started to move a little more vigourously. "Scheisse!" he panted, grabbing hold of my hip and trying to slow me. I stopped moving, and just held him, squeezing gently. "I am sorry; I will stop talking. It is clearly distracting to you."

"Doch," I insisted, moving my hips again. "On the contrary, I want you to keep talking. I love your voice. Talk to me, the whole time."

Ralf gently as his hips met mine, and we started to find a gentle rhythm together. "Now I feel all shy. Performance anxiety. I can't think of a thing to say."

"Say whatever comes into your mind," I teased. "Be present with me. You can talk in German, if it's easier."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you," he replied, kissing my ear as I increased my stroke against him, but then he complied. >>Be present. Where am I? I am in a room, in a hotel room in Frankfurt, with a pretty woman young enough to be my daughter. I must be mad. But I love her. I think she understands me. She pulls me out of myself in ways no one has ever known how to do before. I trust her. I trust her completely. I would have to, wouldn't I? To be here? To risk everything, just to be with her. Just to be inside her. Christ, her _Möse_ is so tight, and her breasts are so pliable. I'm inside her, and it's still not enough. I want more of her. I want to truly be inside her. I want to be inside her head, to be inside her dreams. Does she dream about me, I wonder, the way that I dream about her? I think of her all the time, when I'm awake, when I'm asleep. She has got inside my head. I don't know what to think. I love her. When I'm with her, I feel good, no matter what we are doing. We can talk - about anything! We can be silent. It doesn't matter. All I want is to be with her. Am I a stupid old man, obsessed with a younger woman? She's an employee, for gods sake. But I'm willing to risk everything for how good this feels. I risk my marriage, my family, my job, my position... it doesn't matter. Being inside her is everything I thought it would be. To see her, looking at me with desire, looking at me like she wants to eat me up. Looking at me like she respects me and loves me, and she would risk anything to be with me, too...  << He switched abruptly to English. "Oh, my love, we must take a break, I am too close. Can we change position?"

"Yes of course." As he pulled out of me, I sat up, then saw his expression, and threw my arms around his neck, showering his face with kisses. "I do love you," I told him. "You don't need to worry, because I love you. Yes, yes, and yes. You are already in my head, and in my dreams. All of it. Yes."

"Come," he said, pulling me to my feet. "Stand up, and lean over on the bed. Maybe put your knee up if you get tired. I'm going to stand behind you and..." As he put his hand between my thighs, he laughed. "I can feel your heartbeat. It is racing. Well! I go inside you now." And as he pushed himself inside me, I whooped for joy.

Sex. Fucking. Fucking Ralf. Standing up, half leaning over the bed. Sitting down, him on the edge of the bed, and me bouncing up and down on his lap. Against the desk, my arse in the air, and him grabbing great chunks of my breasts. On the sofa, me face down, staring at an upside-down Frankfurt Airport as he plunged into me from behind. Onto the other bed, with him lying down, and me riding him reverse cowgirl. On the floor, true doggy style, my nipples rubbing against the nap of the carpet as he humped me. Back on the bed, him panting, exhausted, saying he couldn't hold out any longer, and could he come on my breasts? I held my breasts together to form a tight space, and he pushed his cock between, spurting onto me and rubbing his semen into my nipples as he came.

He slumped back against me, his face between my breasts panting, as I played with his hair, noting his scar, noting the thin spot at the back of his head where he brushed his longer hair down to cover the bald patch. This old man, this crazy sentimental German, he had fucked me within an inch of my life. And I just wanted to do it all over again.

But after a few minutes of catching his breath, he raised his head. "But what about you? You have not come? What can I...?" He moved his head lower, opening his mouth to place it on me, but I stopped him.

"No. I'm sorry but I don't like that. Let me show you what to do."

I guided him with words and fingers. Lying back, I pushed his hand between my legs and asked him to push his middle finger inside me. He sat up slightly, leaning on his other elbow, observing me carefully, as if trying to learn what to do to get me off. And then, slowly, kneading my palm against his, I showed him what to do. Orgasm was so close; I had felt it building several times when his cock was inside me, but just couldn't get enough pressure to come.

I looked up at him, smiling down at me with an expression of curiosity, as if studying my face for signs of arousal. "Talk to me," I said, panting, as I felt my body growing nearer and nearer. >>In German is better.<<

"I am all talked out. What do you want me to do, recite the poetry of Heinrich Heine?" he teased, wiggling his finger inside me.

>>That would be fine,<< I said. And he, bless his heart, actually did it, he started to recite a poem. I looked up into his clear blue eyes, and held my breath, then felt my orgasm catch, and break over me. Christ, it was deep, so intense that I could feel it rolling back along his finger. It seemed to go on and on forever, breaking over and over and never stopping, my whole body spasming, right down through my thighs, until finally, the echoes died away. I felt drained. I felt utterly exhausted and depleted, and wanted to cry, but as I lay there, reeling, trying to catch my breath, I felt some new energy spreading outwards through my limbs from the tip of his finger.

It was just the oxygen returning to my limbs, after heavy exertion, I told myself, feeling the tears escape my eyes and start to run down my cheeks. A physiological reaction, a state of bliss brought about by neurochemicals in my brain, released by the burst of activity, and then the orgasm. It was not some spiritual, pseudo-mystical experience. It was just hormones. And it was just hormones making all these tears flow down my face, as I started to sob, big uncontrollable gasps, not of sadness, but simply of emotion, and feeling completely overwhelmed by it.

"Katrin," my lover said, extracting his hand from inside me, and pulling me towards him, wrapping his arms around me and kissing my hair. "Katrin, what is the matter? Was ist los? What is wrong?"

I shook my head slowly, just clinging to him as he reached for the blankets, and pulled them over us. "Nothing," I gulped, gasping through my sobs. "Nothing is the matter. I'm just... I'm..." I paused, grasping for some adjective that covered this mix of extraordinary emotions. Christ. I was in love with Ralf. "I'm _happy_. I'm crying because I'm happy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wish to leave the story at a happy ending, you are welcome to finish here.
> 
> If you are curious about the characters and what happens to them, and are willing to read a rather darker story, please [proceed to part two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10561818/chapters/23333268).


End file.
